


Of the dead and the living

by WahlBuilder



Category: Mars: War Logs, The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cultural Differences, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sign Language, Slow Burn, Technomantic Culture, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, no ostriches have been harmed in producing this story, set Abundance on fire, slow burn so slow it's a simmer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 06:25:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17340239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: The arrival of refugee Technomancers to Noctis is a mark of changes in many lives.Neither the Prince of Noctis nor one of the Technomancers know just how major those changes will be.





	1. Misstep

**Author's Note:**

> Contains brief: Sean/Zach, Ian/Connor, Innocence/Roy/Tenacity, Sean/Zach/Andrew.  
> I recommend reading [Marks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16275668) first. Even though this story is not a direct Marks sequel, many things that happened in Marks are referenced here; plus, many original characters first appeared in Marks, and lots of cultural Noctian things are expanded upon there.  
> The story doesn't completely follow the canon either.

Perhaps it had been presumptuous of him to bring a tea tray with two cups and a bowl of sweets to the balcony. It sat there on a flat cushion, and Dandolo, perched on the banister of the gallery above it, tried not to look down.

Why would the Technomancer come? All of them needed rest, help, had their dead to mourn. Master Melvin would not seek the company of a stranger.

Having lived with, and loved, Technomancers from Aurora, and having corresponded with one of Abundance for years, Dandolo was aware of the differences between the Guilds. He was aware that, for all the multitude of letters he had exchanged with Ian, he knew almost nothing of how they would be up close; Zachariah was definitely an outlier, by circumstance. But he knew enough to try to imagine what he looked like in their eyes. They were creatures of hierarchy, soldiers—and he was the Prince. It didn’t matter that he was just a merchant with more things to have a headache over than other merchants. Would the Technomancer want to learn that? Or would he treat Dandolo like a superior officer? The Dowser? The Abundancean Dowser was chosen by the Assembly—would the Technomancer _view_ his position like that?

Why did he care so much about that?..

‘Prince Dandolo?’

He nearly dropped off the banister, but planted his foot on the floor just in time and looked from his perch down at the balcony.

‘Master Melvin.’

He made his way down to the balcony and the small orange lamp in the Technomancer’s hands. Master Melvin was still in his uniform—wasn’t he hot during the day?

‘I have tea waiting, if you care for it,’ Dandolo offered, gesturing at the cushion. ‘Please, indulge me.’

The Technomancer smiled—a little upturn of the corner of his mouth. Or perhaps, it was just Dandolo’s imagination and the play of light.

They sat on a long ottoman, the tea tray between them, and the Technomancer lowered the lamp to the floor carefully. Dandolo could make tea by touch alone.

‘Your guards say you are often insomniac,’ the Technomancer said in a subdued voice. ‘And that you are often… up.’

So Master Melvin had been making enquiries about him, his habits and quirks. Dandolo opened the teapot to check the state of the tea, then poured it into the cups. ‘They are not mine, but Palatial. But it is true, what they said.’

‘Aren’t they supposed to be protecting you? As bodyguards. Telling such things to a stranger is unwise. Who knows what I might be planning to use that information for? What I might be planning to do to you?’

Dandolo looked up to determine whether the Technomancer was joking, but the pale face was unreadable, so Dandolo moved a cup closer to him. ‘They protect everyone in Noctis. I am important, but Noctis won’t collapse without me. And who says,’ he took his own cup, folded a leg under himself and looked at the Technomancer over the cup, ‘that I cannot protect myself?’ A knife was strapped to the calf of his folded leg.

The Technomancer’s gaze flicked to it, and then he closed long fingers—ungloved—over his cup. ‘Yes. I heard the stories.’

‘Noctis is a city of stories,’ Dandolo noted, tasting the tea—flowery, blooming into delicate sweetness to dissolve in a thicker, warmer taste,—then picked an orange slice from the bowl.

‘This, I heard, too.’

‘You seem to be eager to learn our stories.’

‘Someone should, if we are to stay here for long. Zachariah has no time for stories, though he has the heart for them.’

‘Your Great Master knows plenty.’

‘Our Great Master,’ the Technomancer said, his lips thin, ‘is resting. And anyway Ian has resigned. But someone has to learn shit.’

Dandolo winced. ‘I hope you will learn more than… shit. Do use your knowledge of my habits to find me whenever you want. But I will ask something in exchange.’

The Technomancer’s fingers tightened on the clay of the cup almost imperceptibly, and Dandolo regretted phrasing it like that, for the flicker of haunted resignation in the Technomancer’s light eyes—but then Master Melvin’s face shut down completely. He sat up straight as though prepared to face an adversary, and took a drink, but the way his throat worked, the way his teeth clanked against the cup belied how tense he was. ‘And what would that be?’

Dandolo wasn’t sure which tone to choose. He knew Noctis, knew members of the Council, knew friends and rivals and enemies across Mars (and in one particular case it was all three wrapped in one), and knew how to talk to them. But here, he didn’t know, he wasn’t certain—as though more than sixty seasons of his life were suddenly useless. He didn’t know whether to explain himself—but then he’d have to explain the whole of Noctis. He didn’t know whether a gentle tone would be appropriate—or whether it would be considered a mockery or manipulation.

He thought that directness might suffice. ‘I’d like you to tell me if you have a need of anything,’ he said at last. Put down the orange. Somehow, his colourful clothes, the various sweets, the whole grandiosity of the Palace, of Noctis itself felt… inappropriate. Worlds away from this stern man in the uniform of the country that didn’t care for him but to which he clung like…

Like a fool.

Dandolo was a fool.

‘Tell me how you’ve settled in,’ he forced himself to say, even though all he wanted was to get as high as possible—to put as much distance as possible between himself and the nearest bottle of something strong.

‘To be honest,’ the Technomancer said—and Dandolo wondered whether he _was_ being honest, indeed, ‘I get so fucking lost in the Palace. I think I saw a garden inside, but that shouldn’t be possible.’

‘There are two gardens inside the Palace,’ Dandolo told him evenly, ‘and an orchard. Please don’t swear.’ He washed the words down with tea. It had grown tepid.

‘Did I swear? I probably did. But then, I am a mere soldier.’ The Technomancer put the cup down on the tray with exaggerated care, and got up. ‘Thank you for your company, _Prince_. I am rather tired. Good night.’

Dandolo didn’t get to answer because the Technomancer was already walking away—without the lamp—and Dandolo had no heart to call after him. He only hoped that the Technomancer wouldn’t break his neck on any stairs.

Dandolo didn’t know what exactly he’d done or said wrong—only knew that he _had_.


	2. Dark

Immediately as Melvin steps off the balcony onto the staircase, he regrets leaving the lamp. He curses under his breath, but he can’t return to the Prince. Maybe he’ll find a lamp on his way to his quarters. At least they are not very far from the guest hall.

For all its colorful lights, Noctis is _dark_ at night. It’s nothing like the constant ambient pollution in Ophir, blue and white in the fancier neighborhoods, dirty orange in the poorer districts.

Melvin charges the small vial on his shoulder, but it has been cracked during their hasty flight from Ophir, and the jelly gas has all but died out — so the only thing it really illuminates is his shoulder. He touches the wall, stumbles when he miscalculates the number of steps down to the guest hall, stumbles _again_ over the rise he doesn’t remember, leading to the doorway to the right of the stairs, then walks down the hallway with one hand pressed to the wall. It’s cold and smooth with ridges at intervals. He realizes he doesn’t remember its color.

What if someone decides to attack them in their sleep? If he were to run further into the Palace, he would get lost immediately. Again.

He doesn’t know why he’s so upset. Aside from being displaced, having a part of his family dead and the other part most likely “disappeared” by the ASC; aside from having to rely on the mercy of other people…

But isn’t it the whole of his existence? His life determined in its entirety by someone else, down to the minute details. How to dress, where to march, whom to kill, whom to fuck… Restricting.

Liberating.

He can’t even rely on Ian and Con right now (funny how in his mind it’s always _IanandCon_ — one word, together from the beginning — and they will be until the end, he knows). And Zach has his own problems, a whole list of them (Melvin has seen that list, scribbled on a datapad, with comments, scratches, plans, some things crossed-out — but a lot more not crossed-out). And his kin are scared, tired, lost…

Why must it be him?

Because there’s nobody else.

_Because all your life, since you caught the rumors of it, you wanted to see Noctis._

Well, here he is! In Noctis, that place of legends. Of freedom.

Here he is, lost, with no definite future in sight. Admonished by someone called a _prince_ , as though they are back on Earth with monarchies and—

He stumbles through the doorway to his room because he has forgotten that it has no door — only a curtain of fucking beads. Who would…

Noctians would.

He is being unreasonable. Worse: he is being ungrateful.

According to what the Prince has told Zach, Noctis has been here for more than a hundred years. These people have their own way of life, the multitude of things they have found, created for themselves in this strange, amazing place. Overwhelming things, colorful things. Their clothes, their language — or languages? he is not sure — their food. Their government.

Their Prince.

And Melvin has no claim on any things Abundance anymore.

Over the years, Abundance took away members of his family, used them, raped them. He wasn’t blind to it in Ophir. To be raised to the full kindred meant to be considered not an idiot.

Abundance maintained his bloodline all the way back to the Colonists — even though he doesn’t know who his parents are, or whether he has genetic siblings.

_[Upon birth the child is to be taken from the carrier and raised away from the Order until the age of five when their technomantic potential and their fate is to be determined._

_Disclosure of genetic relationship status is treason.]_

Sometimes you can tell — something, anything, a passing resemblance (the arch of his brow and Ian’s, Con’s sensual mouth — and Sean’s; his cheekbones — and Alan’s…)

It doesn’t matter: they are family by the blood they spill, not merely by the blood that flows in their veins.

They are all they have.

They are all _he_ has.

He won’t let anyone use them, not anymore. Not even the one who has given them shelter. They are not tools, not weapons anymore.

But what _are_ they?

He sits down on his bed — small but soft, with many pillows he doesn’t know what to do with, smelling of something sweet. Something like the Prince’s tea.

He doesn’t sleep.


	3. Morning

Dandolo suspected that sending a bag of candied oranges with a note reading ‘I’m sorry’ was not a proper apology, but anything else had to wait. Noctis had no time for the Prince’s personal problems…

No, it was not right. It was not _personal_ —it was rather one of the most profound political missteps in his life.

And yet…

And yet, it had been personal, too. He had offended a man who was in a position vulnerable from many points: emotionally, physically… He should have scouted the situation better, he shouldn’t have presumed…

He sighed.

‘D, you are distracted.’

He sighed again and ran a hand over his face, then looked at Fran. They looked back at him, a datapad in their hand. They were in full rider gear: a headscarf wrapped for travel, goggles and a mask on their neck, the tunic wrapped tight about them. A rider’s horn on their hip. Ready to lead their sextet out for a mole and manta hunt.

He was wasting their time. ‘I’m sorry, Fran. Long night.’

Their eyes softened. ‘You haven’t slept again.’

‘I have,’ he objected. ‘A little. I’ll sleep at midday.’

The early morning Palace was rather quiet. Fran was the first one to make their report, but the city beyond the Palace was already bustling with activity. Beloved city.

Dandolo’s thoughts were fuzzy around the edges, and his attention was on the level below, where the Technomancers were settled.

‘You can’t compensate it like that,’ Fran said, lowering the datapad. ‘You know what the _medeghi_ say. It doesn’t work like that.’

‘I’m of the _tangata hau_ , and that will never change. I’m simply more used to the caravan time.’

‘But this is the city,’ Fran pointed out. ‘You should get used to the city time, D, because it’s unlikely you would be voted out of your position in the foreseeable future. _Me Doxe_.’ They paused. ‘Is it about the Technomancers?’

Dandolo glanced away. ‘Yes. One of them. I… upset him.’

‘Oh _no_. What an _abhorrent_ creature you are!’ Their sarcasm was falling from them like dust after a hard ride across the plains. ‘Apologise, make sure to not do it again. And you know how to make sure not to do it again? Maintain a proper sleeping schedule so you can think before you act!’ They paused, and scratched the edge of the datapad. ‘About the Technomancers... The Dust say there was a riot and a break-out at one of the Abundance POW camps, with many mutants free—but not only mutants. The camp overseer was a Technomancer.’

‘ _Was?_ ’

Fran nodded.

Dandolo closed his eyes briefly, then looked at them. ‘Thank you, Fran. I’ll... relay the news.’ Just what he needed: an excuse to talk to Master Melvin… No. No. He was not that kind of person. Even if the Prince _might_ be, even if it was expected of the Prince. But he wouldn’t exploit pain. How would they be different from the Guilds in that case? He knew what Anton would say to that. Serum is just Serum—but it _wasn’t_. If it had been, they might as well start draining living people for it.

They might as well return to slavery.

As long as he breathed, there would be no slavery in Noctis, and he would, with his own very hands, execute any Noctian, any _one_ in his city found to be abusing another person. But who was to make sure the Prince himself didn’t abuse another person? The Council. Fran. Dandolo realised that with years, his family had diminished. He missed Artair, missed his advice and his way of speaking; he missed Nameless. Missed Tenacity. Even Anton. But of those, one had been let into the Shadow, two others, Dandolo hoped, were roaming free somewhere. Maybe they would return to Noctis one day. And Anton was in Ophir.

The Prince’s position was a lonely one, and Dandolo hadn’t felt it as keenly as today. It must have been the Technomancers. To be reminded of the absence of his friends, to feel the jagged edges of loneliness grating against his—

Dandolo shook his head again. His tangled thoughts were a proof of Fran’s observation: he was sleep-deprived. A small nap in the middle of the day would do—but he had much to accomplish before that.

He kept himself occupied with papers, reports, reviewing the dockets for caravans. Consulting his inner clock from time to time. He didn’t want to impose himself on the Technomancers too early. Judging by Zachariah, the Abundancean Technomancers were used to overnight work and to rising early, but, tired as they were and still adjusting to Noctis and with no need to follow any orders here, they must have allowed themselves the luxury of rest.

When the day approached a reasonable hour, Dandolo put datapads aside, asked the members of the Council present on the balcony to take messages for him, and went to a private room. He washed his hands, looked at himself in the mirror. He had to keep balance between being the Prince and, therefore, relaying the news officially—and being Dandolo, offering his personal sympathy. He found himself, like the night before, torn between possibilities—but improvisation was a skill that he required both as the Prince and as a pilot.

When he descended to the guest hall, he knew he was late.

Zachariah was seated on the border of the tree patch, his back straighter than any uniform could make him sit. Eyes empty, face not unreadable—but completely devoid of life. His friends hovering behind him, his family by his side, the older Technomancer whose name, if Dandolo recalled correctly, was Sam, touching the boy’s shoulder and, bent over him, telling him something. Connor, one of the pair, was there, too, away from others, by a column, a hand clawing at the tiles.

Master Melvin, by Zachariah’s side, too, his collapsed staff in his hand, a frown on his face.

Dandolo caught Niesha looking at him, and she signed what he already knew. _‘A loss in the family.’_

He approached Zachariah with a careful but firm step. ‘Zachariah, I am sorry for—’ He found himself interrupted, his way barred by an extended Technomantic staff. He didn’t have to look along the length of it to see that Master Melvin was furious. It was in the air, the charge building up.

Perhaps it was due to Dandolo’s being a sandsinger, but all Technomancers—or rather, their charge—tasted differently, although if asked, he wouldn’t be able to describe that taste.

He looked at Master Melvin nonetheless.

There was a metallic glint in the Technomancer’s eyes, again preventing Dandolo from memorising the colour of Master Melvin’s eyes. ‘I was merely—’ Dandolo started as gentle as possible, but was interrupted again.

‘Save your sorry’s for someone else, Prince’, the Technomancer said—no, pushed through gritted teeth, low and menacing.

Out of the corner of his eye Dandolo saw how Zachariah lifted his head towards Melvin’s voice. Dandolo locked his arms behind his back. The Technomancers were stricken by new pain. Melvin’s anger was not aimed at him. But, looking into the Technomancer’s eyes, he felt like it was.

He tried again, ‘Nonetheless—’

Sparks ran along the staff. ‘ _Nonetheless_ leave Zach alone!’

Mistress Sam moved. ‘Brother—’

Melvin’s eyes were blazing, and the taste of his charge filled Dandolo’s mouth. ‘We don’t need your platitudes! You know _nothing_!’

‘Master Melvin—’

‘Don’t call me that!’

‘ _Brother!_ ’

The staff was pressing into Dandolo’s chest. ‘We don’t want you to—’

‘Master Melvin.’

The change was immediate: the Technomancer stopped mid-sentence, and tore his gaze away from Dandolo. Dandolo, too, looked down.

Zachariah was staring at them, though Dandolo doubted he saw anything. ‘Master Melvin. Prince Dandolo. I am… sorry.’ That tone, faded like old neglected fabric, was not unfamiliar to Dandolo, though he’d never thought he would hear it from Zachariah. The boy had suffered a lot, but was resilient like a mantis.

Master Melvin lowered his staff.

Dandolo crouched before Zachariah. He realised suddenly that the boy must be younger than Niesha. He offered Zachariah a smile. ‘You don’t have to be sorry, child,’ he said gently and put a hand on the boy’s knee. Zachariah appeared so strange now in his dark uniform, as though a child playing with his parent’s clothes.

When young Noctians hoisted the _Ocio_ before wandering out into the unpredictable plains of Mars… Did it, too, look like this to strangers? Like Zachariah, stiff in a soldier’s uniform, looked to Dandolo? Was it what Master Melvin saw here—or expected to see? The things familiar to him? Death and death and death and death—instead of what Dandolo saw: life and life and life and life, despite the odds, despite the suffering.

‘I think I won’t be able to run errands for a day or two,’ Zachariah said, and his voice crashed into silence in the end.

Dandolo squeezed his knee. ‘It is all right, Zachariah. It can wait. However long you need.’

‘Just one day,’ Zachariah whispered, closed his eyes and leaned to Mistress Sam.

Dandolo got to his feet. This was not for him.

Mistress Sam helped Zachariah up and steered him towards the Technomancers’ quarters. Dandolo signed for the guards to not let anyone bother them, then returned to the main staircase.

The taste of Melvin’s charge followed him.


	4. Mourning

Melvin cannot tell who’s affected worse: Ian and Con — or Zach. He has to coax Con to leave the guest hall, to steady him. He doesn’t stay when the eldest two and the youngest one lock hands in their shared pain.

With those they’ve lost over the weeks due to the ASC, it is painful — but it’s a pain that fuels anger, that gives strength, a pain that can be harnessed and used.

With Sean, though… No body— worse, _alone_ , not even on the front line, sent away as a punishment, with no familiar eyes to witness his death. From a hand of an enemy, allegedly — but a cowardly prisoner, not a warrior.

Melvin is angry at the indignity.

It is a futile kind of anger, and it leaves him empty.

He goes to his room — although how can a place with no door be called a room? — and his gaze falls on a bag with a note. He has forgotten about it completely. The morning, the previous night — they feel so distant.

“You shouldn’t have snapped at the Prince like that,” a voice says, startling him.

The bead curtain rustles, and Melvin quickly looks away from Sam’s frowning face.

“We are here,” she continues, as though his show of unwillingness to talk is not enough, “by his mercy.”

Now _that_ is untrue, if Melvin understands anything about Noctis. “We are here by the mercy of the city, not—”

“The man hasn’t done anything to warrant your anger!” Sam snaps.

He feels chastised like a cadet — and, like cadets are trained, he closes his eyes for a moment and takes a breath.

“Brother.” Sam’s tone changes to the softer, and she moves — not behind him, it is never a good idea — but beside him. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I don’t know, maybe all the deaths or the fact that we have lost our home…” He looks at her.

There is only concern in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Melvin says quietly. His family are the last people who deserve his snapping at them.

“I’ll be fine,” Sam says. “It’s not to me you should apologize to.”

Heat washes over his body. “You think he’s going to retaliate?”

“You tell me. You’ve had more meetings with him than I.”

His assumption is thin as a cadet’s attempt to control a surge. Prince Dandolo doesn’t seem to be that kind of a man. He seems to be a man to put away all things personal to sort the important things.

And Melvin has allowed personal to take control of his temper.

Sam is right. She’s right, and he knows that — but he doesn’t _want_ to know. “I’ll do my best,” he promises. As though his best could help anything.

Sam smiles. It’s the warmest thing he’s seen in what feels like eternity. “That’s all we can ask of you.”

He leaves his staff and, after a few moments of consideration, his gloves in the room, and goes in search of the Prince. No point in delay. He doesn’t want talking on the balcony full of courtiers — but to his surprise the balcony is empty save for the guards by the stairs.

There is no sign of the Prince.

Melvin breaks into sweat. He tells himself it’s just the weather. He feels ridiculous walking onto the balcony and looking at the Prince’s bedroom alcove — how can he even sleep there, nearly out in the open? Although perhaps he finds ways — company — to occupy his attention. Melvin feels the guards’ gaze between his shoulder blades.

And then a thought makes him look up.

The Prince is sitting in the shadow of the upper gallery, right on the — Melvin swallows — the banister, his back leaning on the support pillar and one leg stretched right on top of the banister.

Melvin doesn’t want to call for the Prince: he is the supplicant here, so it is only right that he should be the one to go up… If he finds a way to do so.

The night before he didn’t notice any stairs and couldn’t for the life of him visualize the floor plan of the Palace with ways leading up to the gallery — but, surely, there must be a way up for those who don’t have the Prince’s aptitude for climbing?

A few moments of rather embarrassing seeking — and he finds a ladder, carved so intricately that it is nearly invisible unless one comes very close or knows what to look for.

It is also just to the side of the balcony banister, with the lowest step hanging over the drop to the guest hall.

Melvin forces himself to not look down while he climbs.

The gallery is a strange thing, dark and empty and Melvin tries to guess its purpose. To hold the Council during some governmental discussions? To serve as the Prince’s private space? It seems strange that private and public have seemed swapped places here: the balcony with the bed is public and this gallery above is private.

Melvin walks quietly round the gallery until the Prince comes into view again. Seen like this, against a square of light framed by the pillars of the gallery, he is a melancholic figure — and a handsome one: long legs, strong thighs, a mass of braids over his shoulders, the tight tunic stretching over—

“Master Melvin.”

He startles, and burns with the shame of being caught staring. He can’t see Dandolo’s face, but he feels his gaze, a palpable thing.

The Prince moves, turns to him fully, lowering both feet onto the floor. Graceful like… like those _cats_ Ian showed them videos of. Unselfconscious and elegant and… A small book in hand. A _book_ , a physical thing with rustling pages. Of course he can afford that.

Melvin idly wonders whether the Prince can buy the whole of Ophir.

The Prince doesn’t urge him, doesn’t fill the space between them with idle chatter — and Melvin has to bite his tongue to stop himself from doing exactly that. Princes are probably taught to be so patient and imposing — and he’s just a soldier.

Melvin straightens his back. There is that thing called _soldier’s pride_.

The air is filled with the thin echoes of the Prince’s sweet perfume.

“Prince Dandolo,” Melvin says in the tone that Ian has taught him to use before the higher-ups — the tone that _Sean_ used so often. “I apologize for my words and my behavior earlier. I regret saying those things, and instead I must say that I am grateful for your help and support, and for… For things you told Zachariah.”

“Your apology is accepted,” Dandolo says, to Melvin’s relief — but the tone, not very loud, doesn’t exactly fit the words or Melvin’s attempt to make it formal. It is too gentle. Too soft. “How are you?”

“Zachariah is in a bad state. Sean was his—”

“Forgive me for interruption, but I was asking about _you_ , Master Melvin.”

It takes Melvin a few moments to process that. Zachariah, Ian, Con — all of them are the ones hurting. Melvin himself is just angry.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs at last, and looks away. He wishes the Prince stopped staring with such intensity.

“If it hadn’t mattered, I wouldn’t have asked the question. To waste words is… not the Noctian way.”

“I’ll be fine,” Melvin manages, and frowns as he fails to hide his irritation. “Not the first time. Not the last.”

“I’m sorry. Would you care… Please, come to me when you have time.”

As though he has a choice.

As though he doesn’t want to.

“I will. Since it seems I am now a sort of a liaison between my group and yo— Noctis.” He doesn’t know what more there is to say, and nods shortly to the Prince, turning away to get back to his family… And remembers to ask the Prince about any _other_ ways down.

The Prince shows him a hidden door leading to a half-lit hallway.

Walking there in the darkness reminds Melvin of the previous night.


	5. Tenderness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended reading before this chapter: [Treasures](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14936508).

It didn’t come as a surprise that Zachariah threw himself into work after losing his beloved mentor. Dandolo tried to keep an eye on him without pressuring him or invading his privacy. Zachariah’s trips out of Noctis increased in frequency and longevity, and he started looking for dangerous beasts.

Dandolo didn’t think the boy was suicidal—merely disregarding danger and trying to bury himself in work. Dandolo knew that urge, and how easy it was to slip into that, to use it as an excuse: I don’t have time to grieve, other people depend on me. But Zachariah had his friends, his family to look after him, and Dandolo didn’t want to force himself into the boy’s company—not to mention that such an intrusion might be taken as an attempt to fill the empty place of his mentor.

Winter was in full swing, and long-travelling caravans started to return, while those travelling to shorter distances were going out for the season. Farms started delivering new harvests, and exchange with the Valley thrived. There were seasonal concerns, and everyday concerns, and those of a possible war, the threat of invasion.

 _‘Noctis first’_ sentiment was being heard again on the streets, but for now Dandolo relied on reason—and on stating his position clearly.

They would monitor for spies—but Noctis would _not_ close its gates to refugees and guests brought in by caravans.

After all, Noctis had been set up by those who didn’t have other place to go.

He wondered, however… If he was to throw the gates open wide, to announce Noctis’s existence to the whole world… The canyons were bigger than all Guild cities and towns _combined_ , enough to house the whole population of Mars, and more. Not with the threat of invasion looming over them, of course; he’d sooner sell himself into slavery again than let Colonel Viktor Watcher raid his city. But was it enough? To allow this trickle into the city?

Was any of what he was doing enough?

His ancestors, the first travelling merchants, were no more, but their deeds were remembered and their words and sentiments echoed through centuries—the canyons had a way of keeping sounds alive long after they were born. What would those people have said of his efforts?

What would Artair have said, had he been here?

_‘You are personally responsible—but you have to work on resolving issues at hand first.’_

His stance didn’t stop some people from giving the Technomancers suspicious looks.

Older Noctians were more welcoming towards the Abundancean Technomancers. They still remembered, or even knew personally, _Kokka_ Artair… But Artair was more Noctian than many Noctis-born. Nameless was remembered, too—but they had been a slave of a notorious villain, and, taking Dandolo’s personal history into account, were greatly sympathised with.

And both of the Technomancers were formerly Auroran.

Zachariah’s family was from Abundance—Abundance, which was in such a poor state that merchants returning from Ophir and other towns, especially those near the former front lines, couldn't help but relate the horrors they had caught glimpses of. Abundance, where caravans were detained more and more frequently, or denied entry without explanation. Abundance, that was rumoured to have spies everywhere.

Spies.

They could be anyone. They could be posing as refugee Technomancers—who refused to take off their grey. Who lived in the Palace, conducted operations for the Prince himself. One of them had meetings with the Prince nearly every day. The Prince—who was a notorious enabler of… _guests_ from the Guilds.

He could hear the emphasis on the word.

_‘Guests’._

Noctis had enough space and resources to admit the whole world—and a few stray, beaten, persecuted Technomancers who had fled death and things worse than death, were suspected of hidden agenda.

‘Haven’t slept much again, have you.’ Fran’s voice startled him out of his thoughts.

He ran a hand over his face, opened his eyes.

The Docks were busy with activity, and the clicking noises provided them some privacy. That, and the fact that few people dared to go near the resting ostriches. Unsaddled, they stretched their necks and lowered their heads, seeking for salt with their feelers.

An especially dark ostrich, its hide covered with many scars but gleaming with oil, waggled towards Dandolo and reached feelers to the bag on his belt. Dandolo chuckled, pulled the strings and took out a lump of salt. ‘You always know where the treats are, don’t you, Notol?’

The ostrich trilled and picked the salt off Dandolo’s palm with soft teeth. Dandolo stroked Notol’s long rubbery neck, and Notol swung it towards him, rubbing against his side and nearly dislodging him from his perch on the fence.

‘Instead of spoiling my ostrich,’ Fran grumbled, ‘you should sign this.’ They pushed Notol away, clicking at him. Notol clicked back and wobbled away, a happy swagger to his step.

Dandolo took the datapad from Fran. He read through the documents carefully. ‘You don’t put Tan in the next week’s roster.’

‘His sextet has run into a pack of feral moles up above, and one took a swipe at them. He broke his leg, poor thing. The _medeghi_ said he’d walk but wouldn’t run as fast again. Such a loss. He was a good sire with a strong bloodline.’

Dandolo’s mind halted—then he remembered how Fran’s mind worked. ‘Paonillo broke his leg?’ he asked carefully about Tan’s ostrich.

Fran rolled their eyes. ‘Yes, what do you think? Tan is fine, but I’m not letting him out on an ostrich that might bite. So, Palace and Docks duty for him next week.’

Dandolo signed the roster and gave the datapad back to Fran. ‘Other news I shall know about? And I’ll handle the expenses for the poor bird.’

‘The Guard has funds for that, you know.’

‘I know. But please indulge me.’

‘I’ve never done anything but indulging you.’ He could see that they were touched, however. ‘And news are the same, D. It’s bad, Ophir is crumbling, Aurora is not much better, and there was a failed attack on a military train near Shadowlair, and now the arrested members of the “Opposition” are awaiting trial and, the way it’s heading, execution.’

Dandolo closed his eyes again, breathed in, looked at Fran. ‘I wish I could go out and actually survey it myself.’

Fran leaned on a water pump. ‘You’ve the canyon fever, D.’

‘I haven’t left Noctis in, oh, just six seasons, Fran.’

‘Spirits preserve me from working with an itchy, anxious _tangata hau_.’

‘And who would pester me about sleep?’

‘ _Finally_ not me.’

Dandolo smiled, and Fran grinned back.

‘Sometimes I don’t want to wake up at all,’ Dandolo admitted seriously. He lowered his gaze. Didn’t want to look at Fran.

‘Even for your Technomancer?’

Heat rushed to Dandolo’s face. He stepped right into the trap. ‘He’s not mine.’

‘You showed him the planetarium.’

‘The planetarium belongs to everyone, and he has an inquisitive mind...’

‘Uhuh.’

‘Frances!’

‘I’ve been Frances for fifty-five seasons already. I only want you to be happy, D. You have no friends.’

‘I have you, and Sofi, and Aya, I have Tan and Niesha.’

‘You know what I’m talking about. You need a gauge, Dandolo, to measure yourself by it. You need a challenge. I’m yours, we all are, and we can give you that… But only so much.’

‘You give me enough,’ he said quietly, looking at Fran.

They seemed sad, and he didn’t want to be the cause of it, but always ended up so.

‘Not enough for _you._ What’s so wrong about it? Please don’t tell me you are worried about your age or your looks or anything like that.’

‘They are going to leave, Fran.’ He ran a hand over his braids, looked at the wobbling ostriches. Wet his lips. ‘Not today, not tomorrow, maybe not next week—but one day.’

‘And you are bad at letting people go.’

‘The city needs me in operating condition, not… finding me on the bottom of a bottle again.’

‘ _I_ need you to be not miserable, and you— Oh look! Here comes your Technomancer.’

‘He’s not mine.’

‘Yes, keep telling yourself that, D. Oh, but he’s gorgeous!’

Dandolo was meaning to ask his friend to not taunt the Technomancer—but words died on his tongue when he looked up. The ostriches fled before the Technomancer, sensitive to his charge.

Master Melvin had discarded his dark grey in favour of a blue tunic. Dandolo recognised it immediately. Although the dark grey uniform could be used during the heat, the bodyglove cooling the body, Melvin had admitted to him that it had been taking a lot of his power to charge the wires. And Dandolo had had a roll of blue lying around. He’d had a tunic made, using only his judgement for measurements: he’d had it made slightly bigger than necessary in places to accommodate a Technomantic bodyglove and weapons, sleeves long and free and attached on buttons to the shirt, and no pattern on the cloth.

Now, he saw that he had guessed the size perfectly and, judging by the dark gloves and wires running up into the sleeves, he was right about the bodyglove, too. Somehow, the free-flowing tunic accentuated Melvin’s shoulders more than the stiff grey jacket, his waist tapering to narrow hips. The bright blue of the tunic bringing out the light of his grey-blue eyes. Matching pants of sand-coloured mole hide, stretchy and durable, hugged Melvin’s legs, and belied the structure of the lower part of the bodyglove, giving him a look of muscles bared to—

‘You know, Master Melvin, there is a reason we usually wear sandals,’ Fran chirped, throwing Dandolo out of his... definitely not appropriate staring.

The pants were tucked into heavy Technomantic boots.

Melvin’s cheeks gained the colour of the sky right after the blue of the sunrise faded, and Dandolo realised the pale Technomancer was blushing. ‘I am aware, _cavaliere_ Frances.’ Melvin looked right at Dandolo. Using the term of honour was a very diplomatic move, and Dandolo nodded subtly, encouraging the Technomancer. ‘But I admit I got... confused by the fucking laces.’

Fran laughed, and Dandolo didn’t even wince at the expletive—he had more reasons to wince at himself for giving Melvin the laced sandals without providing advice on how to actually do the straps. And Dandolo knew that incorrect lacing might be, at best, uncomfortable, and at worst, result in an injury.

‘There is nothing wrong with not knowing, Master Melvin, and you do learn fast.’ Fran gestured at Dandolo. ‘Our dear _Doxe_ often wears laced sandals, like right now, he can give you instructions.’

‘I’m better with learning from practical example...’ the Technomancer said—and dropped to his knees.

Dandolo gripped the fence, feeling that if he didn’t, he would topple over.

Melvin was reaching to his feet—indeed, laced—but looking up right at him. Melvin’s eyes were clear, the ambient light making his black and silver hair gleam, like Dandolo had seen in old vids of Earthian birds.

His mouth went dry.

Melvin blinked—and the red to rival the Noctian crimson suffused his cheeks. He looked away, curled his fingers, looked at them with an expression of surprise. ‘I... Dandolo... I’m sorry.’ Melvin was already getting up, and away, and Dandolo couldn’t let go of the fence, his fingers cramped around the wood.

And then he did—but Melvin already left, the wonderful blue fading in the distance.

‘No. No, no, no, what do I do?’

‘I assume, give him space,’ Fran said.

Dandolo slid off the fence until his feet touched the ground, covered his face with his hands briefly.

‘D. It’s not the end of the world. A little awkward, yes, but both of you can work through that.’

Right. Like he ‘worked’ through their second ever nightly meeting, like he ‘worked’ through the moment when Zachariah had found out about his mentor’s death...

A hand touched his shoulder. ‘Hey. Hey, D, come here.’

He turned towards Fran and let himself be drawn into an embrace, and returned it, fingers bunching up the cloth over Fran’s back. He buried his nose in their headscarf, its woody scent comforting. ‘I’m sorry,’ he managed to say. ‘I’m overreacting.’

They chuckled, stroked his back from the neck down to his belt. ‘Maybe a little. _Fradelo_ , it will be all right.’

‘I would have been ruined without you, Fran. I love you so much.’ He closed his eyes tightly against the sudden onslaught of emotions. Maybe he was tired and needed better sleep. He felt raw.

‘I love you, too, D.’

‘Guardian Frances. _Me Doxe_. I apologise for the interruption…’

Dandolo let go of Fran but not far, and looked at the guard. ‘It is all right, Mani. Go on.’

The guard nodded. ‘There are strangers asking for refuge. They have codes outdated by seasons, but they arrived on a worm-hunting truck and they invoke your name…’

He was moving already at the ‘worm-hunting truck’. He flew out of the ostrich pen, into the Docks proper, up a flight of stairs, down another, jumped over a fence, rushing down a street, leaped off a ledge to the lower level, avoiding collisions, his heart soaring.

The entry area by the Golden Gates was thronged, as usual, and Dandolo couldn’t remember the signal to open the gates, so he croaked, ‘Let them in!’ He wet his lips and called again to the guards, ‘Let them in!’

He could barely stand still while the gates opened—and then froze.

The same jacket, but battered and dusty, the familiar patterned cloth on his hips, faded from crimson to brown; the crossrifle on his shoulder. The scar just under his ribs. The hair red—but with grey in the beard. Blue-grey eyes light and smiling.

‘Tenacity,’ Dandolo breathed out, and swayed towards the hunter, and took his face and kissed him hard on the lips, then brought their foreheads together.

Tenacity chuckled—the sound so familiar that something twisted under Dandolo’s ribs. ‘Still kicking, I see?’

‘Still. I missed you so…’ He felt like he could float—and then big arms closed around him, grounding him.

‘Missed you, too.’ Tenacity’s breath was warm on his face, and the beard was soft under his palms. ‘Do you have space for refugees?’

‘As much as you need.’ He forced himself to pull away. A chittering startled him, and he found himself being explored by vibrating antennae of a giant hound, so big it reached his shoulder, its plating red going into black. He let it touch him, smiled. ‘Your companion?’

‘Yes. Temperance. He’s a good boy.’

Dandolo petted Temperance’s crest, and the hound chittered again, big body vibrating.

‘Uh. Hello.’

He looked at another of Tenacity’s companions. Their light eyes were huge on the face thinned by suffering. A rifle behind their back—not a hunting issue, but a military one.

Devil curse wars.

They had a red scarf wrapped tightly about their neck. Dandolo smiled, encouraging them.

‘I’m Innocence Smith,’ they said, their voice betraying their youth. They couldn’t be older than Zachariah. ‘And this is Roy, he’s—’

‘A Technomancer,’ Dandolo finished softly. There were the familiar signs: the notches on the temples, a certain pride in the bearing. The undercut—an Auroran Technomancer. Dandolo’s stupid heart leapt at that. The man had a piercing, heavy gaze of mismatched eyes, one blue, one golden.

‘That is in the past,’ the man grumbled—but Dandolo knew there were no former Technomancers.

He spread his arms. ‘Welcome to Noctis, friends, and please, be my guests. I insist.’

The Technomancer gave him an appraising look. ‘And you are?’

‘Dandolo, a merchant and the Prince of Noctis.’

‘Calm down, brother,’ another voice said. ‘I am certain the Prince has no problem with Technomancers: after all, he’s housing my own family.’

The man had the regal expression so prominent of certain Technomancers—and a head full of completely white hair, but, unlike Zachariah’s kindred, he had a tan of someone who’d spent a while outside.

A cry flew up over the crowd, and the crowd parted as a figure rushed to the man and right into his arms. Zachariah sobbing and laughing at the same time, and the man’s expression softening, and his arms closing over the boy.

Sean Mancer returned home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended reading after this chapter: [In the brightness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15712116).


	6. Jealousy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended reading before this chapter: [Pathways](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15886170) and [Magic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16365254).

Melvin knows he has his priorities mixed — but he can’t do anything about it.

Sean’s return from the dead (his ascription to the world of the dead was, it has turned out, an elaborate ruse made with the help of the Dust) is the main event: a beloved son and brother has returned, a lover delivered from the deadly hellish heat of Mars by unlikely friends. Zach doesn’t let go of Sean, holding his hand, stroking his arm, looking, looking at him — gorging on everything they weren’t allowed to do, to show. There is only family here, and Noctians don’t judge, and he can slot his fingers through Sean’s (right hand gloved, but left hand bare), and sit shoulder-by-shoulder.

Usually, Melvin doesn’t know how to react to such events, his emotions delayed by days, weeks — those except for anger. Joy is not an infinite thing, and should be measured out carefully. But Sean’s return seems even more distant than anything else. The return of Melvin’s dear brother obscured by another thing, a closer thing.

Melvin holds the blue tunic, soft and malleable under his fingers, unlike the leather of his gray jacket — and thinks on that other man. The hunter.

Emotions are delayed — except for anger.

It is not the quick charge, surging up and heating him from the inside, but it is something spiky, like currents gone wrong, out of control — not heat, but needling pain under his skin, under his tongue. Going on for days now.

That forehead touch. That kiss.

A headhunter from Aurora — and the Prince could find similarities between himself and that man. A technomancer from Abundance — and they couldn’t understand each other.

_[Confinement in the Source is for the safety of those technomantically-gifted. The world would exploit them otherwise, shun them, mistreat them. Mother Abundance gives them everything they need.]_

Melvin is not Zach. The boy is easy with people — because he’s young and hasn’t seen the full range of horrors that people commit with glee; because Sean still believes in the good in people, even though his biting humor might trick you into thinking he’s given up on the world. Zach is Sean’s, in every way, and it shows.

Melvin is not Zach. He’s a trained killer, a tool, a weapon akin to a mortar. _Technomantic Battle Generator, model “Melvin”. Effective range: 300 hundred meters. Charge up time: 0.5 seconds in dry conditions. Self-combustion threshold: arrival of the Noctian Prince’s old flame…_

“Brooding?”

He folds the tunic on his lap and looks up at Sean. “Someone has to, in your absence.”

“May I?”

“Sure.” He moves aside, and Sean sits down with him. It’s a bench on a chiseled part of a cliff, some three levels above the ground, overlooking the Caravanserail. A lovers’ spot: there are stripes of cloth of every possible color — but mostly the Noctian blue and crimson — tied to the back of the bench for neverending love. A wind turbine is rotating lazily above, creating a soothing repeating noise.

Melvin glances at Sean. Without the gray, the circlet, he looks less formal and more… plain. Domestic. There is a softness about him that Melvin can’t describe, even though his face is thinner. The tan becomes him, highlighting the striking white of his hair.

“You are back.” Melvin startles himself with the words.

Sean turns to him, blue eyes smiling. “I am.”

Melvin reaches out — hesitates — then touches Sean’s hair. Soft, longer than it was when he saw him last time (thought it was for the last time).

“You are alive.” Melvin smiles, and his lips are tingling and trembling. “Little brother.”

“I am.”

Melvin pulls him to his shoulder, because he _can_ (because he knows there’s nobody around). And the thing about wearing the bodyglove without the gray over it, is that he can feel everything. The angles of Sean’s body, and how Sean wraps his arms around him, pressing at his ribs. Melvin strokes his hair, the nape of his neck, his back — thicker, coarser leather under his hands than the gray, and no spinal “grounder”.

Hot wetness slides down his neck where Sean’s face is pressed to him. Melvin keeps stroking his back, murmuring nonsense until it fades into the lazy whooshing of the wind blades above them, the bustle of the city below them. Noctis is fast — but never fussy or festinate.

“I heard you’ve taken the task of liaising between us and the Prince,” Sean says at last. He shifts, lays his head on Melvin’s shoulder, and Melvin eases his death grip on his little brother. “But you dislike politics.”

Oh, yes, this is Sean, with his way of downplaying things, exaggerating things, talking is roundabout ways, in metaphors. For those who know him, it is no wonder he’s made friends with an Auroran Technomancer, even as strange as that Roy seems to be.

Melvin doesn’t “dislike” politics — he keeps as far away from them as possible. They make him feel stupid, angry, like he’s less and easy to manipulate.

But Noctis is…

“Someone has to.” He rests his cheek on the top of Sean’s head. Sean smells of sand and heat, and he’s so soft, so soft and alive.

“What’s wrong, Mel?”

He wants to tell Sean that he loves him — but finds he can’t. Maybe he doesn’t need to.

“Nothing.”

“I have found that sometimes it is preferable to speak your mind, big brother.” Sean’s tone is gentle and quiet, the way he talks to Zach, to IanandCon.

“Preferable compared to what?”

“To getting a kick to the shins.”

Melvin snorts. “Your new friends do that?”

“One of them. He’s an expert at well-aimed kicks to the shins.”

He thinks on all the witticisms Sean trades with Roy whenever they are in the hearing proximity of each other. Two cats, hissing as they meet — but hissing at _others_ should one of them be threatened in any way.

Why isn’t he jealous of that?

_Because you’ve no intention to occupy the space of all friends in Sean’s life. Because you know you are not interchangeable for Sean._

_Because you know Sean loves you._

“Why don’t you pick up drawing again? It used to help you unburden your mind.”

Melvin chews on his bottom lip. Of course you can trust Sean to not forget that. “Haven’t done it in _years_. My hands have forgotten how to do anything but…” But killing.

He doesn’t say it—but this, Sean picks up anyway: “ _That_ is the thing they would gladly forget. And drawing, they wouldn’t.”

Can he find some notebook and pencils or a pen and inks here? He doesn’t need much…

“Mel?”

“Hm?”

“May I ask you something?”

Sean sounds so uncharacteristically uncertain that Melvin strokes his back again to soothe him. “Anything, Sean.” And he means it, even if he can’t put it in many words.

“If I asked you, would you—”

“Master Mel— Oh. I do apologize.”

He moves quickly away from Sean, letting go of him — and hates himself for it. They don’t have to hide anymore, this is not Ophir.

Dandolo’s face is an unreadable mask — Melvin’s head pounds with heat: it is like looking at a stranger.

_You are nothing but strangers. You delude yourself if you think otherwise. You don’t know him._

“I see you are… occupied.” Has he imagined the little pause before the last word? The Prince looks at Sean, nods shortly. “Master Sean.”

“Prince Dandolo.” Cautious and formal.

Melvin is reeling.

The gaze of green eyes pins him down. “I only wanted to know whether you’d like to accompany me, Master Melvin. It concerns the city, and I would like you to be a witness and to offer your thoughts. But I see that I should go. I’m sorry.”

Melvin’s jaws ache, and he realizes he’s been gritting them together.

So, kissing his lover where everyone can see them is fine — but Melvin holding his brother in this secluded spot is not?

“Mel. Go after him.”

He manages to unclench his jaws. “I’m not his plaything or his servant.”

“I haven’t suggested that you are.”

He looks at Sean and can’t understand the expression on his face. “Why would he need my advice?”

“Fucking _go_.”

He strokes the tunic still in his hand, then gives it to Sean. “Leave it in my room, please?”

“Of course, Mel. Now go.”

He gets up… He doesn’t want to think of it as ‘too hastily’. He hesitates, wonders whether he should put the tunic on— No. No, if the Prince has problems with him being a technomancer, Melvin doesn’t give a fuck.

He looks up and down the cliffs because the Prince might decide to not use the convenient pathways and stairs, and just climb or jump off — but the blue of his tunic, lighter than the one Melvin has left in Sean’s arms and with a subtle pattern that Melvin knows from studying it from a closer distance, is moving down the steps cut in the cliffside.

Melvin hastens after him, though makes himself slow down a few steps behind the Prince. Before he can call the Prince, Dandolo stops for a moment, and says without looking at him, “You don’t have to go with me.”

Melvin wonder how he knows. Is it that his step is heavy? But there is the usual bustle of the city. And it could be anyone following him. Noctians tend to approach their Prince at any time of day and night.

“If you require my presence…”

“It would be well.”

He notes that the Prince doesn’t go down the stairs to the ground level, but rather moves up another, and, a few turns in, Melvin puts his own concerns aside, realizing where they are going. “Has something been happening to the refugees again?” He doesn’t fail to spot a couple of guards with spears on the gantry overhead. He wonders whether he’s here for the same purpose: intimidation. But then, Dandolo wouldn’t have said he required his advice.

They stop before the heavies in front of the short stairs leading to the “church” platform.

“He is occupied,” one of them booms.

“I can wait,” Dandolo says. His voice is neutral, his pose relaxed and open. No weapons on him — at least, Melvin corrects himself, no _visible_ weapons.

Dandolo doesn’t look up at the platform — but Melvin does. The pews are empty, and the “holy father” is seemingly moving items on the altar from place to place.

The heavies shift from foot to foot before Dandolo. One of them glances at Melvin, and Melvin thinks that, without the jacket, with the wiring of the bodyglove exposed, he might look more intimidating than usual even without his staff and gloves. He schools his face in a neutral expression.

At last steps sound on the short metal stairs. “Ah, my lord! Come to receive a blessing or to listen to a sermon at last?”

“Neither, Father,” Dandolo replies, his voice smooth — but none of the powerful recital he has witnessed a couple of times already, warm and colorful like Noctis itself. Right now, Dandolo’s voice has the smoothness of a blade. “But I require your audience.”

The preacher glances briefly at him, and Melvin can all but taste the first licks of fear. It is sickeningly familiar.

“Of course, my lord! Come up, please!”

They go up the stairs, the preacher first, Dandolo after him and Melvin behind. The man goes to the altar again, shifting a book, a tablet, a small cup.

Melvin is stricken with a pang of pain. It all looks like a parody of the Chapel.

“What did you want to talk about my lord? Please sit.”

Dandolo doesn’t. He doesn’t cross his arms on his chest or put them behind his back, and Melvin is suddenly very aware of the fact that, out of the four of them — Dandolo, himself, and the two heavies by the foot of the stairs — the Prince is the most deadly and dangerous.

“The contents of your recent sermons have come to my attention, Chris Seeker.”

A Seeker? This man is a Seeker? Melvin notes another thing: there is no “Master”, no “preacher” or any other title or denomination of occupation or calling.

“I could write them down for you, if you are interested, my lord—”

“I am no lord.” Spoken just as neutrally — but Melvin has spent some time with the Prince. The storm is not even visible on the horizon yet — but it is already there.

“A-apologies, my— Prince.” The preacher chews his lips, then looks up at Dandolo in defiance. “I give them succor. Would you deny them that?”

“You tell them that they are _unworthy_ of succor,” Dandolo says, and now, his voice is gaining power — the kind of power that makes it carry over the whole of the Palace and the Caravanserail, and, it seems, the whole of Noctis. “You tell the refugees it’s their own personal fault the Sun is angry! You are manipulating those who are in no position to think clearly!”

“There is comfort in humility, my—”

Dandolo leans to the man, and the preacher stumbles back until the altar stops him. “Humility? Humility would be dressing their wounds, both physical and mental, without dripping poison into those same wounds! Humility would be providing them with sustenance without following it with a false reclamation that it comes from any gods! Humility would be tending to them when they scream and thrash and cry, without turning them away! The _medeghi_ know humility. The people who offer their homes as a stay know humility. The merchants who smuggle them out of war-stricken cities know humility. _You_ don’t!”

Dandolo’s voice, the lilt of his accent more pronounced, echoes up and over and above and below, the city’s noise quietened.

Noctis is listening.

It’s always listening.

The preacher’s face grows red. “You… You are a godless blasphemer!”

“Godless?” Dandolo leans back. “If your gods are like you speak of them, we don’t need them here. And shouldn’t I be a believer first to become a blasphemer?”

The man, if at all possible, become even redder.

“Your son, preacher, that _murderer_ , was spared by someone who has more mercy than I do. If you don’t curb this, I will, _personally_ , drag you and your son out into the sunlight.”

The man grips the altar behind himself, his eyes filled with tears. “Is this how you rule? Whatever is against you, should be banished?”

“I don’t rule, Chris Seeker. I am not a lord. But I _will_ banish anything that hurts my people. You have your warning. Whether you heed it or not is up to you. Good day.”

Dandolo goes down the stairs, without hurry — but his back is tense.

Melvin follows. Dandolo doesn’t stop walking. They get higher and higher above the din of the city, up gantries and stairs until they rise to head-spinning heights — though this is not even the highest level.

Dandolo grips the rails of a platform they have ended up on — and then leaps over them. Melvin reaches out to him, hands clutching at empty space, all noises dead in his throat — but then Dandolo perches on the railings, sandaled feet securely on the lower bars.

_You are so stupid._

To cover his embarrassment, Melvin goes to the same railings and leans with his back to the so-many-levels drop below.

“I didn’t handle that well, did I.” Dandolo sounds contemplative.

Melvin glances at him. A braid has fallen onto Dandolo’s shoulder, and Melvin has to restrain himself to not reach out and push it back. The triangles on Dandolo’s earlobe are difficult to drag his gaze away from.

“I cannot say. Why did you need me there?”

Dandolo huffs, shakes his head. He has white streaks in his braids. “So you would stop me if I tried to strangle the bastard.”

“You didn’t. It is… commendable. The preacher is from Abundance?”

“He is. Brought a group of refugees here, and some became sworn to the city, but the preacher himself refuses. Nobody wants to vouch for him anyway. And now I might have brought forth a message that religious faith is not tolerated. That man would twist it exactly that way.”

“I never thought about religion in Noctis,” Melvin admits. He doesn’t understand many things about Noctis, but to call them “godless” like it’s the biggest possible insult…

Dandolo leans forward over the drop. Melvin quickly looks away. “Some carry their gods with them here, but many Noctians don’t have any gods.”

He peeks at the Prince, but Dandolo is still safely there on the rails.

“What about the Devil?”

A shrug. “The Black-Eyed One. The Black Hands. They are no deity. They are just… in the middle of the Labyrinth. Some feel the urge to go there, and some come back and then wander off into the darkness again to never return.”

Melvin glances at the triangles on Dandolo’s ear. He has learned the meaning of them already. Dandolo has five, each for a single venture into the Labyrinth — or rather, each for a single _return_ from the Labyrinth. They say there are other marks, those that the Labyrinth — or the one who resides there — leave on such travelers.

“What about the spirits?”

“They are no deities either.”

“But how can they be, if you don’t believe in souls?”

“Spirits are echoes in the canyons. There is no such thing as a soul.” The green eyes turn to him. Even shadowed by the coverings protecting the city from the deadly glare of the sun, Dandolo’s eyes sparkle. “There is no some single essence of _you_ , separable from everything else. You are your body, such as it is with its cravings and aches and needs, you are your brain; you are your thoughts, those you can control and those you can’t; you are your aspirations, your desires, your dreams, your sensations…” He shakes his head once more. “Forgive me. I don’t think I’m a good partner for a philosophical discussion right now.”

_For him, you are but a barbarian, a close-minded fool. He hates Abundance and he barely tolerates you…_

Melvin swallows thickly, pushing these thoughts away.

The green is looking at him again, but the expression on Dandolo’s face is hard to read. “I haven’t had the chance to offer my congratulations on return of your… kindred.”

Melvin ducks his head. He feels pinned like before, and that makes charge race through his body. “Thank you. I missed my little brother very much.”

“Little brother?” Dandolo sounds so astonished that Melvin has to look at him again. The Prince has half-twisted to him and — Melvin’s heart drops into his boots — he has let go of the rails. “I thought he was your lover!”

“What? No, he’s Zach’s!”

“And how would that prevent him from being yours, too?”

“What?”

They stare at each other for some time. A burst of laughter comes up from a level below.

Melvin looks away. He is aware that his neck and his cheeks are burning. “We are not related by blood—” well, he’ll never know that for sure anyway, “—but, he is my brother regardless. Like you and Frances.”

“I see.”

He is _also_ aware that they are standing — sitting — very close, in this secluded spot with nobody else around.

“Allow me, too, to offer congratulations,” Melvin rasps. He realizes he doesn’t have a flask at hand to wet his mouth. “On return of your… hunter friend.”

Dandolo chuckles, and it only adds to the heat under Melvin’s skin. It must be because they are on the upper level where hot air accumulates. Despite the many fans here, and the winds. “What is that small pause about, _corvo_?”

He is ready to fling himself over the rails and down, but he thinks no level is high enough to end this.

There is a quality to Dandolo’s attention, when you feel it physically — and right now, Melvin is feeling it in full, as though he’s not wearing the protection of the bodyglove at all.

“You and him…” He cannot continue. This is not his business, it is _not_.

“We are not related by blood,” the Prince says, and it sounds like the low purr of cats, “but, he is my brother regardless. Like you and Master Sean.”

“I don’t care,” he manages to squeeze out of his throat.

“Don’t you.”

He feels thoroughly teased — in a terrible, wonderful way.

If he had had his full uniform on, the spinal “grounder” would have been spitting sparks already. He wants to run away, from Noctis, from Dandolo’s palpable gaze — and can’t, magnetized here to Dandolo’s side.

_I want you. You confound me more often than not, but I want you all the more for it._

_I am unworthy._

“ _Manu koroiti..._  Melvin? Could you… If you have the time, please wait for me here? I shall be back shortly.” And like this, Dandolo is gone.

Melvin hasn’t even noted where Dandolo disappeared. He wonders whether it’s some escape strategy, whether he’s just that uncomfortable to be with.

_Do you really want him? And to condemn yourself for being made to feel inferior? What are you, a slave? His toy?_

While he is musing, Dandolo returns, chest heaving. Wets his lips and Melvin’s gaze is inevitably draw to that small thing.

“Here. Try it,” Dandolo says. It comes out breathless, as though he has run… Why would he?

Melvin finds Dandolo holding something up to him. It is wrapped in thin undyed cloth, and is roughly brick-shaped, small enough to fit on Melvin’s palm. It is malleable, but not exactly soft. He frowns. “What is it?”

“It’s a… sweet. But it’s not overly sweet. You might have tried it before, but I want…” Dandolo trails off, and Melvin still doesn’t know what’s brought it.

But he peels the cloth away enough to reveal the pale contents — and a slightly bitter aroma. He thinks he’s familiar with it, from somewhere, but it is a distant echo in his mind.

“How do I…”

“Oh. A moment.” A thin blade appears in Dandolo’s hands, no longer than his palm, and their fingers touch, and Melvin belatedly utters a warning…

Dandolo goes still for a moment, then smiles. “Oh, your electric fingers. Right. Allow me.” He takes the sweet as though nothing has happened, as though he hasn’t experienced the slight shock that anyone experiences while touching a technomancer. As though it isn’t unpleasant.

A thin piece is sliced of the brick. It looks like some kind of dried-up paste pressed into form. Melvin takes the slice from Dandolo’s fingers, careful to not let their skin touch.

Melvin bites some off.

It is sweet, yes, but there is that slight bitterness that adds depth to it, and then, there is the now familiar oranges, and…

Melvin shuts down his thinking and just feels.

“How do you like it?” Impossible, but the Prince sounds nervous.

And Melvin finds he has closed his eyes. He looks at Dandolo. “I like it very much. It is unusual. What is it?”

He gets handed over the whole brick and the knife, so he slices off another piece and holds it to Dandolo. Dandolo gives him a long look, then accepts it. “Marzapan. My ancestors — the first Noctians, that is — brought the recipe from Earth, and while there are not many ingredients used, they are difficult to obtain.”

Melvin listens, slicing a chunk now and then, alternating between taking it himself and giving it to Dandolo. He likes it when Dandolo talks about his beloved city. His face _glows_.

“It is made from finely ground almonds — that’s a kind of nuts — sugar and a little bit of water. Some essences are added for flavor: lavender water, rose essence, or, in this case,” Dandolo smiles, “oranges.”

Melvin smiles in turn. “You like oranges very much.”

“Since childhood.” Dandolo looks down briefly, and Melvin takes the opportunity to hand him another slice. Dandolo presses it into a triangular shape. “They can be dyed and formed into anything. There are two varieties, if you don’t count flavoring. This is the ‘palatial’ marzapan: it is made with bitter almonds and sweet almonds. The ‘caravaner’ marzapan is sweeter and easier to make, even during travels. Bitter almonds only grow in the Palatial orchards.”

“Does the Palace maintain a monopoly?”

“A natural monopoly only. Almonds require a lot of water, and bitter almonds even more so, besides other special conditions. It is,” Dandolo holds up the piece, “an indulgence. But I think that indulgences are important. You can’t go on surviving all the time. You have to start _living_ at some point.” His green eyes are on Melvin.

Melvin can’t say whether Dandolo is talking in general or… No, it can’t be. The Prince doesn’t know. Shouldn’t know.


	7. Tension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended reading before this chapter: [Incandescent](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15854172).  
> 

When Zachariah didn’t show up when he had said he would, Dandolo didn’t get worried. It wasn’t the first time. Zachariah frequently ventured out of his way to help people, or sometimes a dramatic change of plans meant delays.

Zachariah had gotten word of some other Auroran Technomancers requesting a meeting with him in a distant branch of a Shadow Path, and he asked Roy to come with him.

Dandolo liked the man, unconventional, passionate in his own way, respectful of other people. When the rogue Auroran Technomancers had arrived and Roy had agreed to become the Conduit, Dandolo wasn’t very much surprised. Artair had told him about that, once. One person acting as a conduit to the power of others, with the requirement to let go of one’s self—and with the danger of losing it completely, with a featureless, neutral mask covering the face… To be chosen by others and acting on their trust…

Dandolo sympathised.

On Mistress Amelia’s rover, it was three, four days of travel at most, there and back.

Dandolo wouldn’t have gotten worried—but Zachariah’s mentor did. And Tenacity was worried, too—and, for all that he was called a hound as a joke, he had instincts honed by years roaming Mars—and Dandolo could trust instincts.

The storm was being born far, far away.

Shouts outside the balcony—the side of the elevator—rouse Dandolo from his papers, and he could feel the tension of the people. He rushed down the stairs, across the guest hall, turning left just before the doors and sliding down the ladder.

The familiar rover was smoking.

‘ _Medeghi!_ ’ he shouted, shouldering his way past the guards—and stopped dead when he saw two figures helping each other out of the rover.

One lifted her face, pale and streaked with blood—and then the face crumpled. ‘Папа!’

He caught her in his arms, stiff with anger, stroking her unravelling hair, her back, checking for injuries.

‘Dandolo… Prince,’ Amelia croaked. She was holding onto her side, and there was a bad bruise on her cheek.

‘You are safe,’ he heard himself say. ‘Medics are on their way.’ He needed to reassure them. He had this duty.

‘Папа! It was a trap! I knew it was a trap, but they used real uniforms, and it was the Auroran Shadow Path, you see, па, we didn’t…’

‘Shhh.’ Her hair smelled of blood and smoke. ‘Shhh. Ты в безопасности, _fia_ , доченька.’ He knew. He knew who could bring her to the brink of collapse.

The ASC.

He looked over Niesha’s head at Amelia. Her eyelids were drooping. ‘Please sit down, Mistress Amelia,’ he said gently.

She began a wave—but then winced and sat down on the step of her rover. ‘I’ll be fine. Cracked ribs. The ASC fuckers have taken the boys, though.’

‘They took Roy?’

Dandolo made himself be still and not look at Innocence. The way the boy asked that question was terrible.

Amelia nodded, although it looked more involuntary. The rush behind told Dandolo that the medics have arrived. Amelia waved them off for the moment. ‘I think they were the main targets. You know. Because of their Technomancy. We managed to get away, but…’ She patted the rover—and hissed, shaking her hand. The rover must have been still hot.

Dandolo made them to go with the medics, got up. So many eyes were on him.

Melvin’s eyes. ‘I’m getting a rescue party.’

Dandolo imagined Melvin being taken… He reached for the Technomancer. ‘You can’t go!’

Melvin whirled around. ‘Like _fuck_ you are going to stop me!’

He winced, raised his hands. ‘I’m not suggesting—’

‘I’m not leaving them in the hands of that—’

‘ _Listen_ to me! I don’t suggest you leave them in captivity. But if Technomancers are the target, _you_ can’t go there!’

‘And who will?’ Melvin asked.

‘You can’t take the sandsails,’ Sofi said. He hadn’t even noticed her, his whole focus on Melvin. He had to stop Melvin from killing himself in a rescue attempt. Or worse.

‘Sandsails would endanger any caravans, Dandolo. You would not sacrifice the city, would you?’

‘There is our truck,’ Innocence said. ‘There is enough room for supplies and a rescue group.’

Tenacity put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, his face grim. ‘We are getting them out.’

Dandolo looked in Tenacity’s eyes, and the hunter shook his head. He wouldn’t be able to make these two stay in Noctis.

He turned to the throng. ‘Volunteers only. No Technomancers. I’m sorry, I’m not risking you.’

Fran raised their hand. ‘I’m going. If only to kick their arses.’

A few more hands were raised—Niesha and Amelia, too, but, after a brief fight with the _medeghi_ , they finally let themselves be drawn away. A brief consultation with Tenacity and Innocence—and Dandolo gathered a group of six, including himself. Innocence protested against him taking part in it, but Dandolo explained, as briefly as possible, that he had the ability to sense presence of living beings and their line of sight and general intentions. Innocence agreed it was valuable. They devised a plan, got more information about the attack from Amelia and Niesha, and then he sent everyone to pick weapons and supplies, to get appropriate clothes. Time was of the essence.

He returned to the balcony, took his knives out of a chest, placed them on an ottoman, along with a small nailgun. He changed into long grey pants and a heavy jacket with a hood that would work at concealing his tattoos.

‘Dandolo?’

‘Yes, _corvo_?’ It was teasing—but he also tried to show Melvin that there was a place for him in Noctis if he wanted. A name, waiting for him.

Melvin didn’t speak for a while, then said, ‘Thank you. For stopping me there. I would have charged into the fight and destroyed lives. Our lives.’

He turned to Melvin. ‘I’m condemning you to the cursed hours of waiting, however. But to lose you…’

‘I understand, now that I’m thinking more clearly.’ Melvin’s gaze dropped. ‘Are you… certain you don’t want to wear boots?’

Dandolo had exchanged slip-on sandals for those with straps but had not done them yet. ‘I am certain. I’m unused to boots, and wearing something that might be uncomfortable into battle…’

‘Right. May I?’ And Melvin went down to his knees.

It wasn’t a hasty drop like that memorable time at the ostrich pen. This one was deliberate, slow, a question in Melvin’s eyes.

Dandolo’s heart was racing. He didn’t stop Melvin.

The Technomancer rolled up the pants leg, wrapped the straps around Dandolo’s ankle and calf, secured them expertly. A brush of skin on skin brought the invigorating shock of electricity. Melvin rolled the leg down. Shifted to the other sandal.

Dandolo reached a hand to help him get up once he was finished. Melvin didn’t take his hand away.

Dandolo wasn’t blind, for all the teasing Fran bestowed upon him. There was… something, attraction that he was somewhat certain was mutual. But what could he give Melvin? Melvin was going to leave. He wouldn’t choose between Dandolo and his family—and Dandolo didn’t want him to have to choose. Dandolo belonged to his city—and Melvin barely tolerated Noctis.

Dandolo wanted to show him the Carnival—but to bind Melvin there for the whole storm season…

He wanted to kiss Melvin so badly.

‘Melvin…’

‘Good luck.’ Melvin let go of his hand and stepped away. Dandolo’s heart sank—but then he heard a quiet ‘ _Me Doxe_ ’. He wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it—but he had no chance to ask because Fran, skidding on the floor, rushed onto the balcony. ‘ _Me Doxe?_ Come with me. You, too, Master Melvin.’

There were three more rovers, red, carrying the hammers of Abundances, and for one horrible moment Dandolo thought that the invasion that had been tormenting him with nightmares had begun. A few Auroran Technomancers were on the platform, helping people out of the rovers—and that brought him back to reality. The peopled getting out were wearing, for the most part, the familiar dark grey.

Dandolo didn’t recognise their faces, but Ian, Connor and others certainly knew them: they made quiet exclamations and went to help, too.

Master Sean ignored everyone, looking about frantically—then he grew stiff.

Dandolo hurried to the most damaged rover.

Zachariah was getting out, Andrew’s right arm slung over his shoulders. Instead of the left arm, Andrew had torn wires. His eyes were unfocused, but he reacted to Zachariah’s ‘Спокойно, спокойно, мы дома, все хорошо…’, hissing when the wires connected with the door of the rover.

‘I think he’s got a concussion,’ Zachariah murmured.

‘They broke my arm!’ Andrew exclaimed, then sobbed dryly.

‘We will make you a new one, _figliolo_ ,’ Dandolo assured him and steadied Andrew as he was drawn away by the _medeghi_.

Sean pulled Zachariah into a tight embrace—then fell back, looking him over. Zachariah murmured, ‘I’m fine, I’m fine. Sean. Roy needs help. We can’t… Roy, he’s…’

Dandolo looked into the rover, prepared for anything—but not for a metal statue. At least, that’s what he thought: a statue of Roy’s stunning likeness, gleaming and still—but then it blinked, and he realised that it was Roy himself.

It was a physical characteristic of Technomancers. Each of them had those markings on their bodies: the metallised burn scars that looked like the gold and silver and copper paint Noctis used on their skin during the Carnival. Only, it didn’t go away.

Only, Roy was completely covered with it. All visible skin—and he was shirtless, with his jacket thrown over his shoulders—all his skin metallised, gleaming, various hues smeared, flowing from one to another. Even his eyelids, his lips, even his hair…

He was staring ahead of himself, blinking once in a while.

‘Roy did something. We would have… He was the target, and we were just the means to make him behave. Because he’s the Conduit. Viktor demanded a demonstration of his abilities—and he did just so…’

‘Viktor was there?’ Sean sounded choked, and Dandolo knew how he felt: they had come so close to losing everything. But if they were alive, then surely Viktor was not.

‘Yeah he was… And Roy did… Roy did.’

‘He released charge at them?’

‘They wore that anti-charge armour, it would have been little use. No,’ Zachariah’s voice grew darker, something like satisfaction in it. ‘He _took_ it from them. All of them. There was about a hundred agents, I think, and he drained them _all_ , Sean, I think they are all dead… But he let Viktor live.’

Giving the colonel the taste of power.

But they could deal with it later.

‘Then Roy fell like this, when we were on the way back. He doesn’t respond.’

‘He’s catatonic. No wonder,’ Sean said, coming close.

Dandolo had a different opinion. He stopped Sean with a raised hand. ‘No. I don’t think he is catatonic. I think he forgot…’ He knelt on the step of the rover.

The mismatched eyes followed the motion, and Roy’s head inclined to him, but the face stayed expressionless.

Dandolo tried Binary, clicking his tongue. The expression didn’t change, but the gaze dropped to Dandolo’s hands.

‘I think he has gone… He cannot talk,’ Dandolo said quietly. He brought his hands up slowly. He didn’t have Technomancy to aid with shades of meaning, with emotions—but he knew electro-signing worked even without that. It had appeared and evolved among people who sometimes were too drained both to talk and to use charge.

He signed Roy’s name.

_‘King’._

A frown, painful but a progress nonetheless. Dandolo didn’t know the sign for ‘Conduit’, but he could do without.

_‘King-Brother. You are safe.’_

‘Master Sean? Have you touched Roy without gloves?’

‘Yes. Yes, I have.’

‘Give him your hand.’ Dandolo moved aside while Sean took his place, reached to Roy with his bare hand, and touched him, skin to skin.

Roy didn’t jolt—but focused on Sean. Features coming alive.

An Auroran-raised Technomancer might forget how to talk—or not be able to talk at all—but wouldn’t forget an electric signature.

Dandolo was grateful for Artair’s and Nameless’s lessons. ‘Master Sean, I believe now Roy—’

‘Leave them alone,’ Melvin hissed.

Dandolo had a moment of confusion, thrown back into the day when they had heard the rumour of Master Sean’s death.

‘Melvin…’

‘This is Technomancer business. You know nothing of us.’ Melvin looked furious.

And Dandolo… felt sad. Days, nights spent in talks, disagreements without fighting—for nothing? Undone so easily? But of course, Melvin only tolerated his talks of the city, of everything else. Dandolo had imposed himself, and Melvin was too polite to deny him—unless they disagreed. _Fought_.

Nothing had changed. Melvin didn’t want to be here, and didn’t want help from a stranger, even if Dandolo _did_ know about Auroran-raised Technomancers.

Dandolo forced himself to take no expression—like Roy before. ‘As you wish. But do go to the _medeghi_ and have his burns looked at. Good day.’ He had other concerns, too. A full city of concerns.

He stopped at the _medeghi_ to check on the newcomers. As he suspected, they all—eighteen of them, coming to twenty with Zachariah and Andrew—were from Abundance, some in a very bad state, with broken arms or with absent eyes, or pulling away from touch with whimpers.

He asked for his daughter and Mistress Amelia, and was told they had been discharged, the former with a grazing nailshot to the thigh and slight shock, the latter with mild burns.

He returned to the Palace. On the balcony he opened a chest, moved clothes and personal items aside to reveal a lonely dark bottle on the bottom. He looked at it for a long time, then closed the chest, leaving the bottle inside, and went over to an ottoman. He drained his water flask, picked a discarded datapad, unlocked it. He activated automatic scroll and let the messages play on the screen while he started changing into his usual clothes.

‘ _Me Doxe?_ Roy still doesn’t speak, but his trine and his kindred are with him. They say the… metallising is temporary, and would be possible to scrub off once he re-balances his charge, whatever that means.’

‘Good. Thank you, Sofi.’ He brought up the most recent survey of the uppermost levels of the canyons. If Abundance brought their artillery, they wouldn’t waste shells on all branches, the canyons were simply too vast. They would try to scout, to find the precise location of the city. The ASC spies in Noctis weren’t communicating with Ophir yet: he had arranged to keep them occupied. But he had to cover every possibility, and so they had to make it look like the part of the canyon visible above Noctis appeared not only unoccupied, but impossible to occupy…

He sat down, keeping an eye on the report, and bent to undo his sandals. Then he noticed that Sofi was still looking at him.

‘ _Fradelo_.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You are known for never lying. I’d be surprised you would start now.’

He didn’t answer, just shook the unlaced sandals off his feet, folded one leg under himself.

‘ _Fradelo_. I’m calling Fran.’

He leaned back, staring at the carpets on the floor. One of them, with an intricate pattern of waves and zigzags, with Mars and the sun and Earth, and the Martian moons, was a gift from the Mutant Valley.

‘I always say that…’ He looked around, at the Palace that had been founded by his ancestors as a place of refuge in the heat and storms. Founded by them, expanded by Princes before him. ‘I always say that we are not a nation state, and so there is a place for anyone here. And I try to…’ For once in his life he couldn’t find the right words when he needed them—even though Sofi was probably not the one he had to say them to. ‘I try to make everyone feel welcome even if their stay is not long. I’ve been the Prince for twenty seasons, I know so many traditions, so many languages… But why can’t I make just one specific man feel welcome?’ He got up, needed to move—away from the locked chest. ‘And why can’t I stop thinking about it when I have a crisis on my hands? We have plenty of people from Abundance, and I know Technomancers and know soldiers. We’ve been friends with Ian for seasons! With Anton… I didn’t try hard enough, and I was so angry when it all went down, and I made terrible mistakes, one by one, because I let myself lose control. But even then, it didn’t feel like the end of everything. And now I’m here and, and I don’t know what to do, and he _hates_ me.’ He stopped, running out of air. Realising he wasn’t exactly quiet.

He ran a hand over his face.

It was his problem, and he shouldn’t push it onto anyone.

‘It matters so much,’ Sofi said, ‘because you are in love.’

He looked at her. ‘Am I? No. Yes. By the Black-Hands, I _am_ , am I? I’m sorry. This is ridiculous. To fall in love for the first time at sixty seasons…’

‘Oh, don’t give me that. You are all right, just like anyone who never falls in love, and anyone who falls in love at thirty. You are all right.’

He covered his face with his hands. He wanted to climb Olympus—away from here.

‘I belong to Noctis.’

‘The _Prince_ belongs to Noctis. _You_ , my friend, belong to the plains. You need to get out.’

‘I can’t. Not now.’

‘He doesn’t hate you, you know.’

He rubbed his face, wincing at the stubble on his chin. ‘Perhaps “hate” is too strong a word. “Despises”. “Tolerates”.’ The pause got very long and he looked at Sofi and frowned. ‘What, did I say something strange?’

She huffed. ‘Fran is right. It’s sometimes a wonder how you manage running us all.’

‘The Council runs. I’m only…’

She waved the words away. ‘Not what I mean. You know what I mean. Brother, me and Aya fight, too.’

‘You are together. And I don’t have the time for any of this. I’m sorry for burdening you with this.’

‘What are sisters for?’

They chatted more, and Dandolo was aware they were avoiding the topic that tugged at his stupid heart.

He needed to put it aside, or better, forget about it completely.

He couldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended reading after this chapter: [Fire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16352174).


	8. Fight

Melvin knows that technomancers of Abundance and technomancers of Aurora are different in many ways, but Ian always emphasized that they have more similarities than difference, just like the general populace of Abundance and the people of Aurora.

Those core similarities don’t stop the people of the two Corporations from killing each other, however.

But before now, Melvin didn’t realize how fundamentally different Aurorans are. Or technomancers trained in Aurora, anyway.

Since Sean’s return, he hasn’t interacted much with Roy. The man is too strange, quiet and aggressive, individualistic and keeping to his friends all at the same time. Him and Melvin simply exist on different wavelengths. And then, that Conduit business, when Roy touched— connected— Melvin doesn’t know how to call it, but it felt like he met a god while walking a familiar, mundane path. Melvin doesn’t _understand_ Roy — and not understanding makes alarms go off in Melvin’s head.

_Threat._

_Enemy._

_Kill._

Melvin has kept to himself. He has plenty of things to occupy his time. Sketching Dandolo, for example, or the various sites of Noctis.

And, faced with it again, with that grand thing he cannot begin to comprehend, he is scared and confused. Life is simple, it always has been (which doesn’t mean it’s _easy_ ): you go where Abundance tells you to go, and command people you barely know to die, and you keep your family safe. Melvin is not a scholar like some of his family members, not struggling in the throes of philosophical, moral dilemmata like Sean. Melvin is a soldier. That is all, and his life is simple.

But maybe all this time he’s been wrong— No, not that.

All this time, he’s been lying to himself.

For years, he locked everything difficult, complex in a mental chest: emotions other than anger, questions, doubts… He told himself he would deal with them later — but “later” never came.

Now, standing with little knowledge of what is happening, looking at the living statue that is a rogue Auroran technomancer who killed just to save Melvin’s kindred, and watching two non-technomancers — his trine, his lovers — talk to him as though they know everything about him; watching Sean, his little brother, asking how he can help the Auroran…

How he pushed Dandolo away, yet again.

He thinks that the world — beyond the dome of Ophir — might be… not difficult, but complex. A Noctian sigil made from parts that make sense on their own but are not designed to be unraveled from the sigil back into separate elements, because the meaning of the sigil is more than the meaning of the strokes.

Noctis is the opposite of the Chapel: all spirals and branches and winding hidden passages, with regularities deliberately broken — while the Chapel is regular and symmetrical and obviously man-made, a bastion of categorization, the world made sense, tamed by a human hand. Noctis is bright and loud — the Chapel is sombre and hushed. In Noctis, it is so easy to get lost wherever you want — in the Chapel, a word spoken above whispers carries to every corner.

Noctis cares. Noctis knows. The Chapel is a refuge — but ears are everywhere, and you are never safe even in its halls.

Behind the Chapel, there are tombs, though more often cenotaphs, of Melvin’s kindred, shards from their staves hammered cold onto the altarpiece — here in Noctis, his kindred _live_.

And he has pushed Dandolo away again.

The thought doesn’t let him go.

If Melvin were the Prince, he would have thrown himself out. Just to make an example. Perhaps Dandolo has been the Prince all these years only because his patience and kindness are easily exploitable…

No. No. To think that Dandolo is a fool is to do him a disservice. Dandolo’s kindness is not foolishness.

He has to get to the Prince, to apologize — again. Apparently, he is too thick-skulled to not react with anger to everything. He shouldn’t have volunteered to become the envoy. He is bad at this; the only thing he’s good at it kil—

No. No.

Not the _only_ thing.

The notebook he’s been carrying around is the proof of that.

He goes to the Palace. He notes automatically that there is not much activity: the guest hall is empty, and there are only two guards by the doors and none by the stairs or on the balcony. Unwise. Maybe Dandolo, too, wouldn’t be— But he’s here. Of course he is: the city needs to know it can find its Prince, no matter the time of day or night.

The balcony is empty of courtiers. There is only Dandolo, a small table by his feet piled high with papers and datapads. No bowl of his favorite oranges, no pitcher — none of the things that are kept for guests and courtiers. Just Dandolo’s flask, covered in brown hide and with embossed spirals, lying on its side by his feet, obviously empty.

Dandolo runs a hand over his face in a gesture so familiar to Melvin, leans back, rolling his shoulders. And startles, looking up at Melvin.

Dandolo is never startled by the presence of people. Or so Melvin thought. It has something to do with Dandolo being a sandsinger, _onekorokī_. Melvin doesn’t understand in full what it means: the sandsingers have various abilities mostly connected to being attuned to the magnetic field of Mars, such as it is, so they rarely get lost, and they feel the weather… But it is much more, for Noctians — and _Dandolo_ is much more. He feels others — the way the Auroran technomancers are taught to be aware of the presence of the tiniest life.

That Dandolo is startled by his presence — and technomancers are “loud” — is a show his being lost in his thoughts. Or simply exhaustion.

Dandolo’s face becomes a mask — and Melvin hates him for it. Then, hates himself for it.

“Master Melvin.” Not simply “Melvin”, not _“corvo”_. Melvin likes _“corvo”_.

“Dandolo. Prince. The technomancers are… recovering.”

“Thank you.”

Melvin suspects Dandolo already knows that, but none other ways to start come to his mind. “Dandolo, I want to apologize.”

Dandolo runs a hand over his face again. He’s so tired, and the city keeps taking and taking and taking of him, don’t they _see_ that he’s tired?

“Please don’t. It is all right, Master Melvin.”

He walks closer. Noctis is always here when it needs something — but not when the Prince himself needs help. “Has something happened?”

Dandolo doesn’t look at him. The Prince is always so generous with his gestures — but now, they are absent, and his hands are on his lap. “A caravan has been detained by the ASC.” He says it in such a neutral tone that Melvin has to fight to keep down his charge. “Not the first time that happens, but… The first time a caravan is beaten into submission. I assume they will be tortured. Colonel Viktor is a very energetic man, apparently.”

Melvin frowns. Viktor must have given orders to capture the first caravan that comes to Ophir. Fuck. “How do you know that?”

“A couple of merchants have managed to break free with the help of the Vory. They are on their way to Noctis.”

Anton Rogue. _Fuck_. “Anton is going to demand a price for his help.”

Dandolo looks up. The green is faded. “No. Not for this.”

“And why are you so certain?”

“Because I know him.”

Melvin senses something weird. He’s missing something. “Know as in…”

“Know,” Dandolo says, “as in, he is my friend. Has been for seasons. Years.”

“You are friends with Anton Rogue.”

“Yes.”

“The boss of the Vory.”

“Yes. We’ve been exchanging letters for the past seasons.”

“Letters.”

“What is wrong?”

Melvin clenches his fists. Closes his eyes, takes deep breaths.

“Melvin?”

“You asked Zach to take out the Vory who infiltrated Noctis.”

“Of course. I don’t want them here.”

“And you’ve been exchanging letters with Anton.”

“I have just said so. Melvin, what is wrong?”

He opens his eyes. “That man is poisoning Ophir and the whole of Abundance!” In the wake of his words he hears a thunderclap — his charge.

Dandolo is on his feet. “And I won’t let this spread into Noctis — but if you want me to curb them in Ophir,” his voice is, too, rising, gaining that power that Melvin has witnessed and has been in the thrall of, but it won’t work right now, it won’t… “I’m sorry but I’m not all-powerful.”

“How can you claim friendship with him?”

“We have a history. We had a falling-out, but he reached out to me seasons later, and I didn’t push him away again. I’m sure you understand what kinship means.”

“Kinship with _him_?” Another thunderclap, and he has to get himself under control — but he can’t and doesn’t want to. “I thought you had principles!”

“And I do.” Dandolo seems so distant, a complete stranger, tall and proud, and Melvin’s head spins. He doesn’t know him at all, and can’t connect with him. “And those principles guide my decisions — but my life as the Prince and my life as Dandolo are not the same. I’ll do everything I can to prevent the Vory from infiltrating Noctis — but I will _not_ turn my back on a friend.”

“Even when he’s a criminal boss?”

Dandolo narrows his eyes, and Melvin can’t help but note that, how the green becomes darker at that. “Have you listened to anything I said?”

“Yes!” Melvin shakes himself. “And it makes no sense!”

The narrow-eyed expression turns into one with a frown. “Are you saying I’m double-faced?”

“Yes. No! Shadow…” Melvin looks away. He doesn’t know what he means. He doesn’t know what to think, he doesn’t _know_.

Silence falls between them.

“We don’t have to always agree, Melvin,” Dandolo says in a gentle voice.

“Don’t we? We depend on you completely. And if we don’t agree, who’s to say that you won’t do away with us like you threatened the preacher?” Melvin _knows_ Dandolo won’t. Would never. But Melvin can’t stop himself, the charge prickling his palms. He looks at Dandolo.

Something twists in Dandolo’s face, and Melvin — or rather, his instincts — prepares for a blow. But Dandolo tarries, a weakness— No, no, _shut up_ — looks away, up, down — and that thing in Melvin, that thing he thought had died, that thing that compels him to fill pages with sketches, that thing that compelled him to hold Sean, that thing… It notices. Can’t help but notice Dandolo, the arch of his brow under this angle and that, the way the light brings forth the white in his braids and makes his eyes shine one of the colors of Earth; the line of his shoulders, a blue tunic stretched over them. His handsome body, his back, his waist, his arms and wrists, and how his pants stretch over his thighs, and the touch-memory of his calves and how wrapping them in sandal straps looked like.

Dandolo kneeling before Zach to offer sympathy and reassurance. Dandolo spreading his arms while speaking to Noctis. Dandolo dangling his feet over a drop of several levels, as though certain that the wind would not let him fall.

Noctis talks of the Carnival coming in several weeks.

Melvin wants to see Dandolo _dance_.

He turns away. “I am sorry, Prince. I fear I would say a lot of things now that I might regret later. Of course this is your city and your people and your decisions. I’ll leave you to it.”


	9. Request

The fight with Melvin left Dandolo shaken and distracted, its abrupt end even more so. It felt unresolved, felt like they hadn’t understood each other. Once more Dandolo couldn’t see what was wrong—and with Melvin gone he couldn’t ask.

Sorting through his papers and documents and schemes sketched on maps, he was gripped for an instant with the fear that Melvin might be gone for good. What was holding him here? His family, yes—but would that stop him?

He had to sit down and cover his face with his hands and force himself to breathe.

His city was quiet. The balcony was warm in the middle of the day. Exhaustion tugged at Dandolo’s mind, internal clock reminding him that, if out in the plains, a caravan would be stopping, ready for the midday rest. But he couldn’t rest. Thoughts were crowding in his mind—and the city was pressing from the outside. He felt the guards by the gates—and the people in the market down on the ground, and all seven levels of the Caravanserail. Temperance prowling the gantries by the Dockside _medeghi_. The Technomancers there like a spiked ball of pain, like the sun in zenith just before the storm rolls in; Roy a condensed needle of power in the middle, a star ready to collapse in on itself and turn into a black hole…

Dandolo barely resisted the urge to drag his nails down his face to try to bring himself back.

His city needed him. That was important.

He pushed everything away except for the maps, turned on a datapad, pulled up a list of necessities. Those who used to go with him out on bandit purges would be familiar with the routine—but he needed real Technomancers for what he was planning. He needed to think of a way to feeding the information to the ASC spies, so they took the bait.

He sat back, closing his eyes, thinking on what he could say to Phobos and to others, how to explain his plan.

He got up. Phobos was his first task. He found the ambassador sitting outside one of the _medeghi_ —the one where both Zachariah and Andrew were, Dandolo presumed. The talk was rather short, Phobos looking at him with amusement. Dandolo hadn’t thought Phobos would deny him, but he had to ask anyway.

Then he found Severity, one of the senior Auroran Technomancers. Their advice might come useful. They were easy to locate by their Technomantic signature, a steadily-pulsing sphere, not caged but simply folded until needed. However, Dandolo didn’t expect to find them, and the rest of the rogue Aurorans—with the exception of Roy—at the Docks by a cluster of light rovers they had come in. They had foregone their formal Technomantic blue in favour of more travel-friendly gear—but there was hardly any mistaking them for regular travellers.

‘You are leaving,’ Dandolo noted.

Severity nodded. ‘Yes, Dandolo. I’m sure you understand why we must. Though it doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate your hospitality.’

He knew. He suspected they would. ‘If you can, return. If you can’t, don’t cry about it. Our gates are open for you.’

‘You can’t even imagine how important this is to hear.’

He smiled. ‘Ride in the Shadow.’

‘The Eye watch over you, Dandolo.’ Severity turned, but then looked over their shoulder. ‘Before coming here, we met one of our siblings, on a quest of their own. They asked us to tell you that we had met them, but said we should not tell you their name and that you would understand.’

His heart beat faster. ‘Oh. Yes. I understand. Thank you so much for it.’

Every available receptacle the Technomancers had was filled with water, as was the law of the city and the departing. He didn’t ask about their destination or any plans. It was safer that way.

It was strange to think how many people he had met who had been roaming Mars now. And if they never visited Noctis again, if he never met them again, he felt like he was still tied to them with invisible threats stretching all across Mars. Like Auroran Technomancers remembered one’s electric signature and never forgot it, so did he. Their names, their words, their stories—they were his, and he was theirs.

He had had to go to the other Technomancers.

To Melvin.

Exhaustion and nervousness, like usual, heightened his sand-sense while blurring conventional senses. The city was subdued, clustered around the medical facilities.

It was getting dark: the blue lights over the Palace stairs were lit up, although working at half strength. Soon, so many lights would be lit all across Noctis for the Carnival. The city always prepared for the Carnival well in advance, the festivities rolling onto the city like storms rolled over the plains.

To think that the ASC might come here and defile his beloved city…

He would kill if necessary. _Fury of Mars._

He went to the hall to the left of the guest hall. Several Technomancers were there, Melvin and the elders most importantly. Sean was by Zach and Andrew’s side.

Melvin was wearing the dark grey.

‘My friends. I’ve come with a request.’

Ian got up. If there was someone approximating royalty in Noctis right now, it was him. He looked exhausted, just like Dandolo felt—but determined and proud. Break before bend.

It was strange to think he knew Ian for so long—even though they barely met in person, before they had asked for sanctuary. And now many of Ian’s family had been tortured, and he had to persevere, and Dandolo was going to ask him to put on an act.

‘Go on, Dandolo,’ Ian said quietly. ‘Anything we can do…’

And he told them. He described the plan in a broad outline, without delving into details for now. Melvin’s attention was a physical thing, a taste on his tongue.

‘Are you going to tell Zach?’ Melvin asked when he was finished.

Dandolo looked right at the Technomancer. He wanted to reach out until his hand touched Melvin’s tightly-controlled electric field. To stroke it until it relaxed.

‘No.’

Melvin’s lips twisted and he looked away.

‘He is in no state to put up a convincing act,’ Dandolo continued. He needed to explain. ‘And he has a habit of writing his plans down, and I cannot be sure the plans wouldn’t get into the wrong hands. I let agents of the ASC here—’

‘You did _what_?’

‘—or someone might notice it and innocently take the word out.’

‘And we are barely talked with by anyone,’ Melvin said in a low voice. ‘We are still strangers in _your_ city, and nobody trusts us to understand…’

Ian moved. ‘Melvin.’

‘Why don’t you ask the Aurorans if you like them so much better?’

‘Melvin!’

‘They left a few hours ago,’ Dandolo said calmly. Had he ruined everything again?

Melvin huffed. ‘Oh, so we are just backup.’

‘You are not. I was not going to ask them to perform the act. Auroran Technomancers have a very distinct way of fighting, just like you do. If Viktor is any good at what he does—and I assume he is—he would know that, he can tell an Auroran Technomancer from you. You are doing it for your own safety.’

Melvin’s charge flared, but before the Technomancer could say anything Dandolo stepped to him, right into his field. He was so tired. ‘I don’t _care_ ,’ he said, his jaws barely working through anger that was only stoked by Melvin’s rising charge, ‘what you think of it. The ASC are _not_ coming into my city, and they are _not_ taking you here. You think I don’t care about _you_?’ He waved. ‘Fine. _Fine_. Think that the city is my only concern, that I’m two-faced, that given the opportunity I would have sold you out. Whatever suits your needs. If you want, I would even lie to you as well as to Zachariah. Whatever gets me to make you go with this plan. We don’t have time, _corvo_. Simply tell me whatever I have to do to convince you.’

His chest heaving, he suddenly noticed that he was slightly taller than Melvin.

That unravelled his rage instantly.

Melvin gave him a look over. Then his face twisted and he said, very clearly, ‘Fuck. Off.’ Melvin’s charge was needling Dandolo’s skin.

He closed his eyes briefly. Then stepped away. ‘Fine.’ He noticed master Sean standing in the doorway, arms crossed on his chest.

Sean arched a brow. ‘A fight—and I’m not invited?’

He hadn’t even noticed him coming. He wasn’t planning on telling Sean, for fear he might tell Zach. No matter now.

‘Please discuss it among yourselves,’ he said. ‘But I want an answer in a few hours. We’ve not much time. As soon as Zach and Andrew are up to it, they must leave.’


	10. Act

In the end, they carry out the Prince’s plan, without telling Zach or anyone of his group save for Phobos.

Swinging his staff, Melvin finds that he misses his blue tunic: it feels more comfortable than the Auroran technomantic gear, even though, rationally, he knows the gear not that different from the dark gray.

He nearly misses a blow to the head because he is stuck watching Dandolo fight.

Dandolo is wearing something resembling the usual Vory gear: a black hooded jacket without any badges, long pants, though still with sandals. Fighting with a pair of long knives and a handful of throwing knives, with an occasional shot of a nailgun.

_You did want to see him dance._

He would have thought the Prince would be showing-off, but there is a murderous sort of joy in the way he blazes through the much heavier-armored and armed ASC thugs.

Suddenly, he does see the _onekorokī_ , the sandsinger, a deified human. Suddenly, he sees the Fury of Mars, the one who might come to Abundance and set it ablaze if it dares to threaten his city and his people.

He _aches_ to train with him, and aches because he realizes he’s missed his chance, perhaps for good…

He whirls around when a nail closely misses his head. And an ASC thug falls on their back behind him, revealing Sean with an arched brow and his staff enveloped in dancing lightnings. He looks comfortable in the Auroran gear, but he’s the sort of person who would look handsome and comfortable even in rags. “Focus, big brother!”

Focus. Right.

The fight doesn’t last that long, and Melvin admits he missed this. They are careful to only knock the ASC off — they need witnesses, those who go scurrying off to Viktor and bring him the exciting news of Zach and his family defecting to Aurora. Although Melvin would have gladly burned them to cinders… He wonders, too, how much propaganda they’ve been fed. Chasing “Technomantic traitors”, no doubt. “Following orders” is such a convenient excuse to quieten one’s conscience.

He goes to the side, still vibrating with the rush of the fight, watching idly as Dandolo goes over to Zach to explain things.

They say in Noctis that Dandolo never lies. Melvin is certain that he twists the truth, sometimes, omits it… But, Noctians don’t work the same way that those from Abundance work. And here, Dandolo lied, and _called_ it that, to the boy of whom he is very apparently fond of.

Melvin has heard him reasoning his actions to Zach before. “Mutual back-scratching” principle.

But Melvin… Fuck him sideways, he  _knows_ Dandolo. He knows the man, and knows that’s not all.

Sean nudges him in the side when Dandolo goes over to them. His green eyes blazing, and Melvin feels… Feels his field. Excitement of the battle, not worn yet.

Oh fuck.

He’s missed all of his chances.

“I must thank you for your work,” Dandolo says, probably addressing all of them, but looking at Melvin, and Melvin wants to hide or to… To hijack the sandsails they’ve come here in, and rush back to Noctis and lock himself in the Palace until the Prince lets him stay.

“I know it went against you, especially not telling about it to Zachariah.” Dandolo says the name with the same fondness he says Niesha’s name.

Oh _fuck_.

“We are used to following orders into the fight,” Melvin says without thinking much on what he’s saying. Just that he needs to say something, to prolong the stay, to…

They are parting ways.

“You are used to great many things, and not all of them good for you.”

“I’m a soldier, Prince. Nothing more.”

Something changes in Dandolo’s face, his eyes clouded, darker. “Do you truly think so — or do you define yourself thus only because you’ve never been defined as anything else? Because your Guild told you all your life that you are that and nothing more?”

Melvin presses his lips together to stop harsh words from slipping off his tongue.

Dandolo continues, “We don’t have soldiers in Noctis, but I always thought that, to be a soldier, one has to have a country to fight for—”

“Dandolo!” This, he can’t let slide.

“To renounce all identity, personality, to become a _thing_ —”

“ _Dandolo!_ ”

“—in the hand of their superiors.”

Charge races up his gloves. “You are _insulting_ me!”

“Only your foolishness — and your Guild.” The inclination of Dandolo’s head, the glint in his green eyes, so dark here, make him want to…

He doesn’t know.

“My _Guild_ gave me everything.”

“No,” Dandolo says with heat, “it _took_ everything it could, and would have taken even more, until— what is it that you do with your dead? Bury them into earth?”

“My Corporation—”

“Your Corporation may go _rot_. Although as far as I know, it is already doing that.”

“There are _people_ there!”

“The only way to save them, to change anything is to burn your _Corporation_ into the ground and start over — with _new_ people, who wouldn’t have that rot in their hearts.”

Rot. Is that what he thinks of them? Rotten hearts, stupid in the mind? Melvin feels acid rising to his mouth. “Yes. Burning to the ground is your favorite solution to things you don’t like, _Prince Dandolo_ , as I’ve heard.”

Dandolo gets so pale that Melvin is sure that this time, Dandolo will strike him.

And yet, the blow doesn’t come. Dandolo only says quietly, “You know _nothing_.”

Oh no, dear Prince. “Maybe I don’t. You criticize Abundance so harshly — yet you trade with us.”

“With _Abundance_ , not with _you_ , although I did make deliveries to Ian. And really? We are going to move to _that_ argument?”

He looks Dandolo’s face, and aches. “We will never understand each other.”

Dandolo is silent. Then says in a quiet voice, “Artair. Anyone who lived in Noctis for several seasons knows that name, or his merchant name — _kokka_ , ‘owl’. One of the most influential merchants, with a large fleet, teaching kids. He was my…” Dandolo falls silent for a moment.

“I don’t see how this is relevant,” Melvin says sincerely. Weren’t they fighting just yet?

Dandolo looks at him with his heavy gaze. “He was an Auroran technomancer.”

Oh.

“He had a lover, another technomancer, and a Noctian caravan came to Shadowlair one day. Artair and his beloved fell in love with a merchant. When the caravan left, they left with it. The two technomancers became sworn merchants. Artair was one of the best sandsail pilots. He lost both his husbands in a storm. Artair was…” Dandolo shakes his head.

Melvin wonders what words he tries to find.

“He was a keeper of the lore, of traditions, our languages, our stories.”

“He obviously rejected his Auroran origin,” Melvin noted.

“He did. Some of it. And some people do reject where they came from — leave all the pain behind. Some don’t. There are many people from Aurora, from Abundance, from the Alliance, from those lost towns and hamlets in the plains. And all have their place in Noctis — even when they leave.”

“Artair was the one who taught you the… Auroran ways,” Melvin realizes.

“Him — and another technomancer from Aurora. That technomancer left Noctis to pursue their own life. And, before you say that you, coming from Abundance, are different — I know. I had…” Dandolo shook his head again. “I had another, I told you. Anton. He left, too. I don’t claim to understand everything, Melvin, although I feel that we are not that different in our heart of hearts. And I understand that Noctis is… a temporary stay for you, and with the invitation to the Valley you have a better option, and you wouldn’t consider calling Noctis your home. But, pray tell me: what has anyone in Noctis— what have _I_ done to make you feel unwelcome? As the Prince and… as myself.”

Melvin thinks like his world has turned upside down, and while he’s gotten used to it with Noctis and with Dandolo — but not several times in just a few minutes. Because a few minutes ago he was angry with Dandolo for dragging them into this, and then he was admiring Dandolo to the point of distraction, and then he was hit with the realization that they might not meet each other for a long time, and then they started fighting… And now Dandolo is asking him this.

This _nonsense_.

“You as… What?” is the best Melvin can come up with.

“The Prince is merely the face of Noctis — but I am, as Dandolo, responsible for every life, and I know I’ve made you hate me—”

“What.”

“—and you couldn’t wait to leave Noctis…” Dandolo trails off, looking impossibly lost. And they say sandsingers never get lost.

Melvin tries to sift through the conversation to find anything he can summon up a proper response to. And somehow, in the light of a single thing, many others become clearer. “Responsible for every life? But you will burn out!”

Dandolo smiles, in that not-Princely but very private way of his that he shows sometimes, the crow’s feet by his eyes.

“If I can stop one heart from breaking,  
I shall not live in vain;  
If I can ease one life the aching,  
Or cool one pain,  
Or help one fainting robin  
Unto his nest again,  
I shall not live in vain.”

At Sean’s gentle nudge, Melvin closes his mouth.

Oh fuck.

Fuck, he’s in love.

“You are mad,” he says, bewildered beyond reason. He can’t think of any of the pressing matters, anything that has been drilled into him: the regulations, the Abundance laws, the wars, the ASC on their tails — there is only this moment, and he is uncomfortable under the unfamiliar uniform, and Dandolo looks so strangely out of sorts in the dark jacket but so in his element in the plains, the red and white in his hair and the green of his eyes more pronounced.

“Some people say that, yes.”

Melvin opens his mouth. Closes it. He says the wrong words, and they end up fighting and upsetting each other. And he might be slow, but maybe finally he understands he should try a different way.

So he reaches into his coat, struggling with the unfamiliar clasps a little, and brings out a notebook. He strokes the leather binding, then thrusts it into Dandolo’s hands. “This, take this.” He walks quickly away, calling for others, “We’ve got some distance to cover, people, let’s go before those fuckers come to their senses!”

He hopes he hasn’t lost all his chances.


	11. Note

Dandolo didn’t take his lone sandsail back to Noctis right away. He roamed without aim, gliding past familiar landmarks: the cave where Faradeas had woken him up for the last time; the small branch of a canyon where moles had torn through the ground and attacked the riders and where Fran had lost their leg defending their ostrich. A crater where, once, Sofi and him had found a bloom of blue and green jellies and spent the whole night watching them dance.

Fran had been right. He had the canyon fever, and now out in the plains he was not as restless as he had been in Noctis.

He closed his eyes and let his senses expand, navigating by them. He smiled, imagining with wild joy what would Fran say if news came that the Prince crashed on his way to Noctis because he had decided to glide with his eyes closed. Fran would probably pull him back together just to murder him personally.

And yet...

And yet, he was not at peace.

The storm was rolling close. In a week, his city would start the Carnival preparations, and then in three to five weeks at most, the storm would come.

He hoped Zachariah would have taken Viktor down for good by then. He didn’t want to end up locked in Noctis without news, anxious that Zachariah or anyone of his family got stuck out in the storm. They were so unused to Mars, even with Niesha and Phobos and Andrew.

And they would visit Noctis. They couldn’t just leave their ailing kindred, who were still recovering in the medeghi in Noctis. They would come and perhaps by the storm season they would have resolved the terrible business with the ASC, and maybe, just maybe they would wish to stay for the Carnival...

Who was he fooling?

He was aching with unspent energy from the fight. He needed proper sleep, a decent meal, and get back to work: schedule a Council meeting about the Carnival, make his report on the ruse, check on the Technomancers, on Roy, weed out the spies from his city, and caravans would start returning soon…

He could fly away from all this. Resupply at emergency sites, let his senses guide him. Avoid big cities—any cities at all, go as far as he wanted, go _anywhere_. He could disappear, and Mars would swallow him without a trace. He was of the wind and the air…

Or he could go into the Labyrinth. The call was there inside him, it never went away, only became obscured by other matters.

But there were his anchors. Fran, and Sofi, and Aya, and Tandje; the gardens of the Palace, the upcoming Carnival. Tenacity and his family. Anton, in the ailing city of Ophir. Nameless, somewhere.

Dandolo banked behind a ridge, stopping the ’sail, and sat back, and listened to the wind and sand. In Noctis, the wind sang a different song, and carried different scents.

The notebook lay on his lap. It was a square thing, bound in cheap leather and tied with a cord. He wondered why Melvin had given it to him. What would he find inside? Melvin’s journal? His confessions of how much he despises Noctis? Empty pages?

Dandolo stroked the leather—then put it under the seat.

It was time to go back to his city.

He turned his ’sail on a straight course. The Docks looked strangely empty without the sign of Mistress Amelia’s rover, although the bulky forms of those rovers the stricken Technomancers had used were still there, mechanics tinkering with them.

A caravan had returned, and Dandolo accepted the invitation to review the haul and to exchange news. He helped with unloading, sharing jokes, listening carefully to rumours. A guard asked for his sigil on papers, relayed to him a request for a meeting with the garden master…

The city claimed him, and he went willingly into the rush.

Only a few days later, when a messenger arrived from the Valley and told him that Zach’s family had successfully earned a place among the mutants, had Dandolo let himself take a break.

And then in a few hours, Zach himself arrived, bringing news.

Zach was planning to cut Viktor’s allies away from him, to undermine him politically. And Dandolo had promised his support—if Zach promised to not engage the Vory. Dandolo knew Anton was already engaged anyway.

He took the notebook out when Zach went away with a promise to visit Noctis again, and if things allowed, to stay for the Carnival. He had not forgotten about the notebook—he simply allowed other things to claim his attention. But after Zach’s visit he could hide from it no longer.

He settled on the gallery over the balcony and stroked the leather again. Then sighed to himself.

He unlaced the cord and opened the notebook and—

Faced himself. His own profile, caught by several fleeting strokes of a pencil. And another profile on the same page, but adorned with meticulous details and shading. His facial tattoos drawn separately, the patterns on his various tunics on the opposite page. His hand, a half-laced sandal, his figure in a few fast strokes reclining on a gallery.

He flipped further.

A handsome giant well of the Caravanserail with Noctians gathered: a big Council meeting. His own figure on the steps of the Palace stairs, with arms thrown out wide. He hadn’t known Melvin had even been at that meeting.

Further: a dark ostrich—Fran’s Notol; a ’sail with the ever-gazing Ocio; a pattern on the tiles in one of the Palace’s halls; smoke dancing over an incense bowl; the stars-and-moons wind chime. A market stall with pottery. Mistress Amelia’s rover. A blooming almond tree. A bowl full of candied oranges. A bead curtain. A wind turbine, a cliff face with a pattern of cracks captured so well Dandolo _knew_ the place. A lamp, a wind flag.

And portraits. Zach’s smiling face, and the stern profile of Master Sean, and Ian and his husband holding hands. Frances in their guard gear, with their merchant name written above Nocto and, underneath, several ruined and crossed out sigils with one successful attempt circled. Equanimity—when had Melvin met her? The mistress of wind turbines, the overseer of Palatial constructions, caravan leaders, merchants. Nocto practised right between the sketches. Dandolo’s own figure, here and there, and here and there.

‘He doesn’t hate Noctis,’ Dandolo realised.

‘Oh good! You have finally found your brains!’

He startled at Fran’s voice. They were looking at him with a small smile.

Dandolo blinked. He felt… like he first climbed all the way to the upper levels and looked down at his city. So light, and full of light. ‘He doesn’t hate _me_.’

‘I know that. In fact, _everyone_ in Noctis knows that—except for you, apparently. We were getting worried and contemplated calling an emergency Council meeting…’

He closed the notebook. ‘What?’

Fran snorted. ‘Your ’sail is in the Docks, D.’

‘Wha—’

Fran pushed him on the shoulder. ‘ _Go_.’

He stopped, looking at Fran, his heart tight. ‘I could… I _was_ stupid.’

Fran grinned. ‘Oh yes.’

‘I… All this time, we could have… Fran…’

Their grin softened into a smile. ‘Go. Have a talk, a proper one, not about politics, but about this,’ they touched the notebook clutched in his hands. ‘Leave the Prince in Noctis.’


	12. Reach

The Valley isn’t quiet, and it takes Melvin several days to adjust. It isn’t quiet — but its noise is different from Ophir’s.

From Noctis.

He misses the tinkling of wind chimes.

In a way, the Valley is more compact, austere, though not unbeautiful: it is adorned with tiles that spill from the streets into the houses and onto the walls and ceilings, like sand.

The closer quarters are suited to the thing that’s been brewing between Zach, Sean, and Andrew. Sean, it seems, has learned much from his new gold-and-blue eyed brother. The concept of a trine, for example.

Melvin is not surprised to find out that Roy — or his trine — wouldn’t need to earn permission to step into the Valley.

From Melvin’s new abode, a cave turned into a simple room, he can see the gates. Amelia’s rover. The path to the Valley.

He catches himself at waiting for a spot of crimson.

He is a fool.

He wonders whether Dandolo had thrown the notebook right away — or only after taking a look at the contents.

Melvin refuses to teach the mutants of the Valley any of the killing techniques he’s been drilled in. He wouldn’t teach any living thing how to kill. But they need to know how to protect themselves, and, with Con and Sam, they train them in combat.

He tries not to think about wanting to spar with Dandolo. His kindred are so familiar in their moves — he needs something new, different. The moves Sean has picked from Roy occupy him for a few hours, make his body ache because Sean doesn’t hold back. But the physical allows his thoughts drift away. To the east.

To Noctis.

Fuck, he is a fool.

When Zach goes to Noctis to request the Prince’s support, Melvin almost asks to go with them. He still has the blue tunic, he still has…

He misses the city, and realizes he’s never missed Ophir like this. The Chapel, yes, little corner eateries, yes… But not the city itself. Ophir is nothing to him, Ophir was where his family was, nothing more. And then his family went to Noctis, and now it’s here… But he still misses Noctis.

He might never return there again, if they perish in their fight with Viktor.

He might never see the Carnival. Never see Dandolo dance.

Never see Dandolo again.

‘My boy.’

He looks up from a book he’s been trying to pretend to read.

Ian is standing in the doorway of his little cave. He misses the beaded curtains. They would have alerted him of a guest.

‘Батюшка.’ He makes to get up, but Ian gets in and sits down on a stool. He looks much better, out of the dark gray.

‘You could go there, if you so miss it, you know. If you miss him.’

‘Go where?’ he asks, and knows Ian is not fooled.

‘To Noctis.’ Ian smiles innocently. ‘We still very much need our own… shall we say, ambassador in Noctis. Of course, that would depend on the outcome of the things with Viktor, and the thing with the Earth beacon, but I’m sure Noctis wouldn’t disappear overnight, and you know it the best.’

‘Ian…’

‘What?’

‘Ian, I… I don’t know how to get there. I’m not a navigator, and I can’t ask for an ostrich, and I don’t know how to ride an ostrich, and anyway… Anyway…’

‘Melvin? _Breathe_.’

He does. He closes his eyes, and forces himself to breathe, breathe, breathe…

‘My boy. The means of getting to Noctis is the least difficult thing.’

He wets his lips. ‘How so?’

‘Because a sandsail has just arrived.’

His heart stops. And then he opens his eyes and… And Ian is smiling, and Melvin drops the book into his hands, and looks out at the gates and there is _crimson_ there and the _Ocio_ , ever-watchful, and there is a lone figure getting out, and Melvin is already running down the steps to the ground level and past the guards by the gates and through the gates and…

And, there is Dandolo, lowering goggles and a headscarf.

‘ _Corvo_? I’ve brought your notebook.’

He feels his heart crack. ‘Why?’

Dandolo takes the notebook out of his tunic, long fingers stroking the cover. Then green eyes look up. ‘There are still empty pages. I’d like you to fill them. If you want.’

Or maybe it’s not cracks. Maybe it’s… He stop thinking and makes final steps to Dandolo. The Prince is slightly taller than him. ‘Dandolo,’ Melvin rasps. ‘I want… May I kiss you?’

Dandolo doesn’t reply long enough that Melvin curses himself to hell and back… But then Dandolo smiles.

‘Yes.’

He’s not good at this. He has to put a palm on Dandolo’s cheek — but Dandolo doesn’t move away from the spark that runs off Melvin’s fingers. He never does. Melvin has to tilt Dandolo’s face up, because there are goggles just under his chin and they get in the way. And he has to align his own head, and…

And then they kiss. And Dandolo tastes of oranges and almonds.

He’s not good at this. But they will get better. They will get better.


End file.
